


Under my skin

by saltypasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, OCD, arithmomania
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltypasta/pseuds/saltypasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a hunt in North Carolina, Sam and Dean catch a ghost ship's curse. Things go bad, mind-bonded bad. Dean obsesses over the number three and Sam tries to be patient with him. If there's a cure they'll find it, but luck doesn't seem to be on their side this time. Set after season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under my skin

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of my Big Bang from last summer. Posted here for archival purposes. You can also find it [on my lj](http://yourkidney.livejournal.com/27595.html).

I've got you under my skin   
I've got you deep in the heart of me   
You're so deep in my heart you're really a part of me   
And I've got you under my skin   
  
"I've Got You Under My Skin"   
Cole Porter, 1936

: : :

Threes have always been bearers of bad news.

Sam didn't tell them he was leaving for Stanford until three hours before he left (and Dean never really got to say goodbye, because those three hours were an eternity of betrayal, sadness, anger and trying to keep dad from ripping Sam apart) and he stayed away for three years.

The only time he ever tried to call Sam was in March of his freshman year. It was from a pay phone, and as soon as Sam heard his voice, he hung up on him.

The first time he saw Sam almost die was when they were fifteen (the one and five is six, which is three twice) and twenty. There were the ghosts of three young sisters and they had Sam pinned to the ground. They sliced his wrists and one was fingertips-deep in his stomach before Dean could get there with the iron poker and dad burned the bodies.

There were only three in their fucked-up family. If there had been four, if mom had still been alive, they could have been okay.

It takes him nine shots of whiskey, which is three times three, to start telling Sam the things he's scared of.

: : :

Sam got three long gashes from the pixies (there were nine of them) that Dean is stitching up right now. There's a third of a bottle of cheap vodka left and he pours almost all of it onto the wounds. He drinks the last two mouthfuls (and the second was too big too much at once, but he couldn't add another to the count) to invalidate the three, and gags at the lukewarm temperature.

He stitches Sam up, calm and soothing, and is especially careful on the third, sixth and ninth ones (and is glad he doesn't have to do twenty-seven, because if there's any number worse than three, it's three to the third power).

He covers the wounds in antiseptic and bandages them. Bandages as many other smaller cuts as he can, too, so he doesn't have to see THREE screaming at him from all over Sam's body, taunting him, reveling in their near-victory of fucking his life thrice and for good.

He only has one pixie scratch bad enough to be sutured, on his shoulder. Sam lays him down, cleans it out with a new bottle of even cheaper vodka and starts the stitches. It hurts, and he keeps track of how many stitches it takes.

Nine. Fuck. He's too tired to argue with Sam for another, so he counts the antiseptic as half and the bandage as one, and that equals ten and a half. Half of that is 5.25, and five plus five plus two is twelve, whose one and two become three which again is no good.

He retracts his earlier statement: the antiseptic doesn't count at all. Ten is friendly enough that he can fall asleep.

: : :

"Sam," he had slurred, nine drinks in, "you get beat up enough even when I've got an eye on you. How am I supposed to keep you safe when you're gone? And you–you've taken off twice already. A third time? I don't know if I'd shoot you or myself." Then Dean got Sam drunk enough that he didn't remember what they were talking about, except he probably did, because Sam started leaving notes even when he went out for coffee or a sandwich or to the library, and never packed up his stuff unless they were both about to leave.

: : :

Dean wakes up and immediately checks the time, as always, and rolls his eyes (7:26) because seven plus two plus six becomes fifteen which is is a multiple of three, or seven times two times six is eighty four which multiplies out to thirty two which is then six, or seven plus twenty six is thirty three, which is two too many threes. That's three ways this time sucks, so he stares at the clock until it clicks to 7:27, which is sixteen, ninety eight (then seventy two then fourteen then four) or thirty four (then seven), which is good enough for him to get out of bed. Sam is still out cold, sleeping off the pain and the drugs.

He gets up, writes a short note to Sam on the lame motel stationary just in case he slips out of that coma he calls sleep, and goes out for coffee. The total for two coffees comes to $2.97. Dean drops the three cents into the tip jar just to get rid of it, then follows it with a few other spare coins from his pocket so he's not just passing the bad luck on to somebody else.

When he leaves, he skips over the third step down, and once in the car he has to fast forward through Led Zep's "Since I've Been Loving You". He used to like the song, years and years ago, but the drums are so ostentatiously in 6/8 that he can't listen to it anymore.

: : :

He must have been eight when it started. Not the threes, that came later, but the numbers. Counting and then adding subtracting multiplying dividing in circles, to manipulate them into new numbers (usually however old he was at the time) and then back.

People he either really liked or really disliked were given numbers. (Okay, so he's always disliked the number three, there was just never a reason until he hit his early twenties.) Sam is zero because that's his favorite number (it always stays the same and never trips you up unless you're dividing by it, but in that case it just becomes infinity which is everything which is Sam) and dad is twenty eight because six, twenty eight and four hundred ninety-six are perfect numbers, but six is three plus three and four hundred ninety-six is just too big, even for their father, and the ones that come after are even worse.

He was in third grade when it started, and it was just a way to pass the time in school until he could go home and actually learn something useful, but then it turned into a habit and eventually became a way of life.

: : :

Dean shakes Sam's foot four times when he gets back to the motel room. "Wakey wakey, princess," he says. "I've got coffee."

"Bzuh?" Sam asks into his pillow.

"Coffee, you idiot. Wake up, smell the caffeine and shake off the painkillers. We've got road to eat today."

"Ew," Sam says. He burrows his face further into the pillow and relaxes his shoulders again in preparation to fall back to sleep.

"Such a bundle of eloquence, huh Sammy? Come on, or I'm taking your laptop and leaving without you." Dean rips the covers away, and is grateful that there are only two bandages showing. He dips his fingers in coffee and splashes it onto Sam's back. "If you aren't drinking this, I'm going to have to try osmosis."

Sam turns his head and scowls up at him. "Osmosis doesn't work like that, moron."

Dean laughs. "We'll see. But come on, let's hit the road. We've got to leave now if we want to get to Bobby's by dinnertime. You can sleep in the car."

: : :

He's glad he only hates the number three, and isn't infatuated with it. It's easier to get something to not be a number than it is to fool around with it until it becomes one.

: : :

As he predicted, Sam falls asleep as soon as they leave the parking lot.

His breathing evens and deepens, and Dean counts Sam's breaths. In and out and in and out ten eleven twelve thirteen and his brother is so alive and beautiful it hurts.

Sam gives a little snuffle and worms his way down into the leather, then a sighs contentedly. Dean flicks off his music so the sound of Sam, quiet and living and asleep, can fill the car.

Dean smiles and guns it.

A couple hours later he stops for gas. He wakes Sam up to ask "Hey, you want some coffee while we're stopped?"

Sam shakes his head first to brush off the remaining sleep and then again as a "no".

"Suit yourself." But when he gets back in the car with the tank full and the biggest cup of coffee they had (black with a little hot water added to weaken the bitter taste), Sam looks over, slides his eyes up and down the cup. He stares it down for a few miles until Dean rolls his eyes and hands it over. He doesn't know why he keeps on fooling himself that Sam will take him up on the coffee offer for once in his life.

When Sam actually gets his own, he likes it so strong it could corrode steel and with eight sugars and two creams, but they end up sharing coffee while in the car more often than not. He makes a face because he can't stand how Dean takes his coffee, but Dean knows it always tastes better stolen from your brother. They trade the cup back and forth, five six seven eight, drinking it as fast as they can before it gets lukewarm, fingers brushing as they pass it. Sam gets the last sip, and tosses the empty cup into his footwell.

: : :

Threes crawl under his skin like nothing else. They burrow and hole up and they're these terrible itches that he can never scratch. They've cropped up in every bad situation he's had to endure; he doesn't even have to get abstract to reveal them.

He thinks that if he can eradicate all evidence of them, if he can somehow avoid any mention of them in his life, Sam will be safe forever. If they would maybe stop following him around then they would stop bringing bad luck, and he could start trying to make Sam happy instead of just keeping him alive.

: : :

They'll get to Bobby's by seven, like Dean planned. The last twenty miles make him impatient–he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, first second fourth fifth, and then back and then again, which he only does when he's really antsy.

Sam looks at him with a couple of raised eyebrows as if he's familiar with Dean's nervous tic. He probably is.

They roll into Bobby's place, past the junker cars and right up to the house. He's outside, with a few popped beers and some steaks on the grill.

"Hey, boys," he says, and it's comfortable.

It's a good night, with a wide open sky and a breeze flowing through.

Dean doesn't mind that Bobby makes them a trio, because he's not always around so it's really more like a two-and-a-half-o, and two and a half is seven, which is a good number on enough counts.

Sam insists on doing the dishes and Dean and Bobby sit down on a couch with a new beer each.

"How have you been doing, kid?" Bobby asks in his rough drawl. He's the only one who gets away with calling him that.

Dean smiles and takes a couple slow sips of beer before answering. "Same as always, old man. You?"

"Ha! Not much, as usual. Found some interesting books Sam might want to look at tomorrow."

They go quiet and Dean is content. He cradles the beer bottle on his thigh, is pleased by the warm thrum of blood that accompanies beer and listens to Sam clacking and shuffling in the kitchen. He counts the books on Bobby's shelf, notes the colors and size of them, then counts plates cups beer bottles scattered around the living room. A clock is ticking somewhere, and the more he tries to ignore it the louder it gets, so he gives in and counts the seconds until the noise completely overwhelms his hearing and then dies back into the background.

Sam comes out after a time, and all three of them are sitting on the same couch even though there's another one directly opposite them. They share the heat and companionship; they're pushed together like three lazy ears of corn. Dean nudges Sam's arm, just to feel him next to him, and Sam looks over and smiles. (He's now seen four smiles like that today, when usually he's lucky to get even one.)

They make small talk to fill up the silence, but they don't really pay attention to the words, just the cadence of each others' voices and laughter. Eventually Dean gets up. "I'm going to hit the sack," he says and heads up to the room. He hears Sam follow.

They share a king bed, because Bobby stopped offering them separate rooms or the cot years ago, and it's warm and cozy like the Impala. (Two homes. He hopes they never find another one, because the numbers are a bitch and something bad would happen to it and he wouldn't be able to handle losing it.)

: : :

Sam's name has three letters in it. That really annoys Dean, because Sam is the best thing that's ever happened to him. Samuel has six letters, but he doesn't really care because Samuel is about the lamest name in existence anyways.

So he calls him Sammy whenever he can get away with it, because that has five letters, and even though five times three is fifteen, which then becomes six, which is three plus three, it's better than straight-up three. He doesn't use Sammy all the time, because his brother finds it annoying just as often as endearing, and Sam's mood is usually more important than his stupid numbers.

: : :

Sam spends the next day hunched over Bobby's books, only looking up to take a sip of water or the occasional bite from his sandwich.

"A friend of mine just called," says Bobby halfway through the day. "Heard of another ghost ship down offa Cape Hatteras, but he's in Georgia cleaning up a pack of werewolves. You boys want to handle it?"

Dean nods. "Hell yeah. We'll get fat with all this down time." He turns towards Sam and says, "Want to hit the road in a few hours? We could make North Carolina by tomorrow afternoon."

Sam nods without looking up.

: : :

They get a late start. Eight. Bobby gives them some food for the road ("If you idjits ever get scurvy, I'll know it's my fault.") and the book Sam was reading with the promise that he brings it back the next time they drop by.

"Is there anywhere you want to stop on the way there?" Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head no.

"Good. Just a straight shot there, then. Man, I love days where we have nothing better to do than drive!" He grins at Sam who smiles back. He can feel the buzz rushing through his system at the impending hours behind the wheel, listening to Led Zep and talking about nothing and everything.

And it's a long drive, over twenty hours from South Dakota to North Carolina even with Dean breaking ninety-five all night without stopping (and they only get pulled over once–Sam sweet-talks the officer, as usual).

Sam takes the wheel for a few hours the next day so Dean can get a little shut-eye, but as soon as he's awake again he bitches and whines until Sam gives him back his baby. They're almost there by the time dusk starts to fall the day after they left Bobby's, and Dean starts to count as fast as he can to a hundred, back down, and then up and on and on, always skipping the threes. It keeps his mind alert.

There are too many kitschy motels along Cape Hatteras, most right on the beach. ("Fucking beaches," Dean says, but Sam seems to love it, so Dean shuts up.) They pull into Buxton right when Dean is about to nod off again, fuck the consequences.

Sam had called ahead and miracled them a room, since it was midsummer and all the motels were usually filled around now. They crash to sleep as soon as they're there.

: : :

"Okay, so I've been able to pinpoint eight different incidents with this ghost ship over the past ninety years," Sam says the next day at the library. "Who knows how many others I haven't found yet."

Dean is sitting across from him, spinning his cell phone. "Cool."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean, would it kill you to occasionally give some input? Look, only four people even mentioned a ship, but I've been able to pick out a few others. They were groups of people each time, between counts of two and six, and they all drowned themselves on the same stretch of beach, always together. From what I can tell, there were symptoms that lasted for weeks before the suicides, such as sudden changes in behavior, usually an increase in restlessness and constant preoccupation, or--"

Dean zones out. It's not that he doesn't care about the case, it's just that he wants Sam to figure out what they have to do so they can do it. He doesn't need all the details. He keeps on absently counting the rotations he makes with his cell phone, and when Sam interrupts him on the twenty-seventh he knows this case is going to end badly.

"Dean, could you at least pretend to pay attention?"

He shrugs. "Sure. You have any idea which ship it was yet?" He scrubs his hand across his face and shoves a yawn back down his throat.

Sam smiles as if he had won the lottery. "As a matter of fact, I think I do. The Carroll A. Deering is one of the most famous ship wrecks off the Eastern Seaboard. It was found hard aground in the outer Diamond Shoals not too far off the coast from here, all eleven crew members disappeared; they never found any of them. The authorities at the time thought piracy, but they don't ever see things the way we do, right?"

"Sure, but why this one? I mean, there are hundreds of other shipwrecks off of this fifty-mile stretch of tourist trap."

"Because what I can pick up from the rumors of the time, the first mate dabbled in witchcraft, and what we're dealing with here certainly stinks of it."

"What, so maybe he cast a spell on the crew and now whoever sees the ghost ship catches it too? That's a little far-fetched, Sammy."

"Hey, it's not like we've dealt with many ghost ships before. Who knows how they can mess with people. Okay, so back to the victims…"

Dean drifts off again, satisfied with his contribution to the conversation. He finds two books with the word 'radio' in the title in the G authors on the science fiction shelf before Sam kicks him.

"Pay attention! The quicker I fill you in on this the quicker we can check out where they killed themselves."

Dean sits up. He doesn't know what they'll actually be able to find on the beach, but anything is better than sitting in the library. "I'm all ears, Sammy."

Sam almost cracks a smile at that, almost, at his enthusiasm. "As I was saying, most of these groups of people worked together, usually as business partners. There have been store owners, hotel owners, writing collaborators, researchers. They varied in degrees of success and category but they were always falling apart before they drowned themselves. Whatever this thing does, I think it targets teams and colleagues with traits similar to the ship's crew."

The chair creaks when Dean gets up. "Good enough, show and tell is over, let's hit the road." He thinks that this curse will go after them, probably will, according to that bad feeling he had not too long ago, but they're Winchesters and they can kick anything in the ass.

: : :

They go and grab dinner before heading out, because the beach is a state park and they have to hike in once all the rangers leave. Dean tries to count how many times he chews each bite of food but Sam keeps on kicking him under the table with his fucking steel-toed boots and grinning at him and Dean can't help but forget the numbers for a moment and smile back.

: : :

There's nothing terribly interesting on the beach. Sand, obviously, a hell of a lot of drift wood, some sea glass, a lot of little purple shells and handfuls of sand dollars. Dean doesn't know what the fuck they're looking for, so he sits down on a big giant drift wood tree and watches the waves crashing into each other, rushing from both the north and the south and meeting at the middle and jumping high into the air upon impact.

"What are you looking for?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. He walks over to Dean and kicks sand onto his boots. "I don't know. I was hoping maybe I'd be able to see what was so special about this place that people kept coming here to kill themselves."

"You know we're probably going to see the ship, right? We fit its pattern as far as we can tell." Dean pokes his fingers through one of Sam's belt loops and twists it around his fingers. He looks up to his brother's face, sees the black and white shadows reflected by the moon.

Sam nods. "Yeah, I know. But we have no idea what it's actually doing to them. I can't pin down anyone who's survived this and I can't think of any other way to get intel on what's happening. Dean, if we can't stop this ghost ship then I don't know who else can."

"Yeah, and didn't you say there were a couple weeks between the sightings and the suicides? We'll have time to figure this out." Dean tugs Sam down to sit next to him. "We should have brought blankets, bitch. Why didn't we bring blankets? And four giant thermoses of coffee. Fuck, this is going to be a long night."

Sam knocks their shoulders together. "Stop whining and keep an eye out. At least the view isn't half bad."

"Why thank you," Dean says and shoots Sam a laugh. Sam rolls his eyes.

"What do you think the chances are of seeing this ship on the first night?" Dean asks after half an hour or so. "Of trying to find it?"

Sam looks at him and scoffs. "I'm flattered you think I know the answer to that, but I really have no clue."

"Yeah, because you're so fucking useless."

And then they're quiet again. Dean scuffs his foot forward and back, one two three four five six seven, forward and back and forward, twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty, until the walls start collapsing onto his toes. Then he kicks left and right, helping to bring the hole down in on itself, thirty-seven fourteen eight two zero, until it's full again. He smooths over the top until it's flat, then plants his feet down, perfect imprints of his boots, except he can't pull his feet up to look because then he wouldn't have anywhere to put them anymore. So he clenches his thigh muscles, left then right over and over and over again, as fast as he can, keeping in perfect time with the clicking of his teeth.

He gets bored again, so he starts counting up and down simultaneously. One one-hundred two ninety-nine three ninety-eight four. He gets halfway done before knocking over into Sam. "How the fuck can you sit still for so long? I'm going insane here!"

Sam pushes back. "Yeah, I can tell. Come on, you'll be fine. Just take deep breaths and focus on the waves."

Dean tries not to laugh, really, he does, but the snort bounces out of him despite his best efforts. "Are you seriously trying to tell me to meditate? Sam, I thought you were above all that shit."

"I've seen you do it, Dean. You have these crazy, intricate things that you tap out with your fingers, and seriously man, I've tried to imitate them and you need a hell of a lot of concentration to pull them off."

Dean laughs. "What? Not really, dude. You just probably weren't doing them right." He spends a few minutes trying to explain one of the patterns to Sam, the patterns that flow so naturally in his head and so effortlessly through his hands. Sam fumbles it, can't get one set of fingers to move differently than the other's. So they stop and Dean goes back to cycling through the hundreds of ways he has of making time drift by.

: : :

It starts to sink in a few hours later exactly what they're trying to do.

"Do you get how royally stupid this is?" Dean asks. "We're actively looking to catch a curse that doesn't leave many survivors, and we're hoping against hope we can outsmart it. What if we can't, Sam? What if this curse kills us?"

They're faced with proof of their own mortality on a daily basis but they rarely go _searching_ for death like they are today, and he feels the shiver of dread. He knows he's not going to live forever but he has a relatively good life and he really doesn't want to die in two weeks.

"We'll be dead and it'll suck."

Dean looks at his brother like he just ate a bug, because Sam is usually the poster boy for optimism and sunshine, and he did not expect him to say something like that. "Wow that's comforting." But it makes him feel a little better. Somehow. Besides, at least they'd be going out together.

: : :

The moon sets and the sky goes from black to midnight blue to dark blue to the sun crawling over the horizon. Dean yawns and lifts his head from Sam's shoulder. He hadn't fallen asleep exactly, he knows he had most certainly kept his eyes open all night, but anything he had seen or thought or felt or heard is skittering away as if it had been a dream. "Nothing, right?" he asks and stretches, feels a shiver running through his tensed body.

"Nothing," Sam agrees.

"So we can leave now? We can come ba– Fuck."

And now they're stone still, perfectly quiet, for there goes the _Carroll A. Deering_ heading north along the coast, right as the sun has fully risen over the horizon. Its sails are furled, leaving the five masts bare, and it floats calmly past them. It doesn't look ghostly, except for the fact that Dean can tell, without a doubt, that it's completely empty, even though it's too far out to see most details. A cold feeling starts at the top of his head and works slowly down, sliding over his face, down his neck, across his shoulders, into his skin.

"What did you get us into, Sammy?" Dean asks, moments before his head explodes in pain.

: : :

Dean doesn't remember much of the first half hour after they saw the ghost ship, just that he has a new sympathy for the headaches that came with the visions Sam used to get. He lays in a daze, tries to push the pain back by counting his breaths, counting his heartbeats, counting anything he can.

Eventually Sam sits up from where he and Dean had been clutching on to each other in the sand.

"Dean?" he asks and shakes his shoulder.

Dean rolls his head and then groans because that was too much movement. "Whatever you did, I'm kicking your ass for it."

Sam laughs a little.

They sit for a while and let the pain reside. He sees the waves crashing in front of him and he starts to count them out of habit. He stops on the fifteenth, because isn't he laying on his side, and aren't his eyes closed?

_Weird_ , Dean thinks, just as an experiment. He keeps his eyes closed, just in case.

"What's weird?"

"Oh fuck." He says that out loud and goes to jab Sam's side, another experiment, except Sam must have seen it coming and rolls out of the line of fire. He feels his body both rolling and staying still.

"Dean. What's up, man?"

"We're in each other's heads. Fuck, Sam, this is the curse." He grabs at his hair again and gives it a yank. "Of course they killed themselves."

"Dude, ow! What was that?"

Then Dean opens his eyes and Jesus fucking Christ.

"Fuck," he says, because it sounded so good. "Fuck this is messed up."

Because he can see Sam, but he can also see himself through Sam's eyes, and trying to concentrate on both the images at the same time is making him dizzy, as well as the shock that's bouncing back and forth between them and magnifying and freaking him out more than he would have been without.

Holy shit he can feel Sam in his head. He's completely engulfed in his presence, he's bleeding into him. Dean tries to pull back and shut his mind down a little, to maybe keep a little fucking privacy.

Sam closes his eyes. That gets rid of his sight, but Dean knows his own is still filling both of their heads. "Could you just close your eyes for a few minutes? I need to get my bearings."

Dean complies before Sam even finishes the thought, let alone the sentence. "You don't have to actually say anything. I'm in your head, dude."

"Same for you, jerk."

They're quiet. Sam is concentrating more on keeping his mind empty than he would have on actually thinking the thoughts, but Dean sends him a thanks him for his effort anyways.

: : :

"Okay, so walking isn't a go yet. Let's just sit and try to keep all our eyes open without keeling over."

"Dude, this shouldn't be so fucking hard. Come on, just a few steps."

"No. We sit and talk about this and try to figure out the case, then we'll do some walking."

"Figure what out? We're sharing the same brain space! One brain, more than one body. Like those Bugger things in Ender's Game. Come on look at me, you bastard. We just gotta stand up."

He sees his own insistent face as well as Sam's nod. "This is so fucked up," he thinks for the twentieth time that night.

Dean slings his arm over Sam's shoulder and they manage to stagger upright.

: : :

They eventually get the hang of walking, although it's slow and staggered and easier when done with less thinking. They fight for control to move their bodies; they can't seem to differentiate between moving Sam's left leg or Dean's; they try to keep their minds blank but can't seem to help stray thoughts from floating over and tangling and where does one end and the other begin?

The double sight is the easiest thing to get used to, actually. It's a little like the difference between one eye open versus both. Their vision just has a greater periphery now or something.

But moving, that's taking some time to get used to. Dean doubts they'll be able to have full mobility for as long as this thing lasts–

"Of course we will, you idiot," Sam cuts in. "If anyone can swing this, it's us."

Dean rolls his eyes. "We'll see."

He counts their steps and keeps numerical track of both of their bodies because it helps him remember where everything is.

Once they finally make it into the Impala, Sam closes his eyes and lets Dean drive.

Dean can feel Sam too strongly in his head. He can feel his brother seeping in to every one of his cracks, and he's crawling into every one of Sam's. Neither of them can help it; their minds have entwined in the blink of an eye.

He doesn't know which thoughts are actually his, nor can he tell his movements apart from Sam's, and all he can feel is panic.

"That's all yours," Sam says from his right, where he's laying against the door with his eyes closed.

Dean concentrates really hard. For a moment he can separate their emotions and okay yeah, Sam is taking this a little better than he is.

That's because he's into meditation and breathing patterns, the freaking weirdo.

But Sam sees the numbers repeating subconsciously behind every one of his thoughts and laughs.

: : :

Dean inhales one two three four, holds two two three four, exhales three two three four, inhales four two three four, holds five two three four, exhales six two three four, holds seven two three four to the rhythm of his heartbeat which is also Sam's heartbeat which is also the thrum of the Impala's engine and he tries not to be startled when he feels a yawn that's not his own. They make it into the hotel room without much further hassle even though they're still so uncoordinated and clumsy.

The sun has been up for about an hour by now and is shining brightly into the room, so Sam pulls the curtains closed. Without another word they drop into their beds. Dean is still counting.

"Shut the fuck up," Sam says into his pillow, and Dean would have understood that even without hearing it in his head because some things just go without saying.

: : :

They sleep through the whole entire day and well into the night, sleep off the fatigue and pain and stress. Dean wakes up at 4:04 in the morning of the day after and he's awake and Sam is still asleep. He isn't dreaming, thank god, because he really doesn't want to think about how messed up that would be, some psychic version of DMT. He can feel Sam's lower back all sore and irritated and he presses his fingers against his own to maybe see if the pressure lessens up and no it doesn't.

He was so tired last night and last night he was so tired and now Sam can see _everything_. Sam can see the numbers, and maybe he'll understand them but he's still going to _see_ them, and he'll see all the broken bits of Dean that come together and add up to one whole Dean that isn't actually whole and isn't actually Dean unless Sam is there to fill in all the gaps. If Sam sees this and gets scared off then Dean will be a Dean without a Sam, and a Dean without a Sam is broken just like when Sam was at Stanford. Broken broken Dean who can't function; broken broken Dean who can't (doesn't want to) live without his little brother.

Sam starts to wake up. Dean can feel it, the second set of alertness growing inside him. Sam feels his panic and is waking up because of it so Dean gets out of bed and runs to the bathroom and locks the door.

He stares into the mirror. He sees himself through his eyes and Sam's eyes. He's Dean looking at Dean but he's also Sam looking at Dean and he's also Sam laying in bed wondering what the fuck is up with Dean and onetwofourfivesixseveneightnineten he can handle this but he really can't. 

He's in the bathroom and there's glass all over the floor because he just ripped off the mirror and threw it against the door and now there's glass all over the floor. He brushes some aside with his boots so he can sit down. He can hearfeel Sam's concern in his head, so he shouts THREETHREETHREE back as loud as he can and the nauseating repulsion he feels in response to the THREETHREETHREE is enough to drown out the loveconcernworry that he can't deal with from Sam right now. He ratchets up the volume of THREETHREETHREE until it's a mantra of THREETHREETHREE so loud in his head that it buzzes and crackles and flickers like a light or the radio when a ghost is around.

He pushes shards of glass together in patterns and it reflects back bits of the ceiling and the THREETHREETHREE is still going strong in his mind but it's loud and strong enough that he can ignore it and focus on the glass and make patterns and think about something else.

Like maybe how sick he already is of this bond because he loves Sam more than everything in the universe combined but he doesn't like that Sam can tell this now and he doesn't like that Sam sees his fixation (THREETHREETHREE) that's built entirely around him and he doesn't like not having control over his own body and he hates loathes despises numbers (except zero) but sometimes they're all he has to hold onto because he can control them and they're predictable and cold and indifferent and don't love him only hate him and Sam loves him completely and wholly and he knows this now and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

He also knows Sam doesn't want to leave him and that should be a good thing but it used to be the only reason he had to push Sam away a little. If he doesn't have that reason anymore then he has no excuse to keep Sam at elbow's length, so he's going to pull him in and never let go ever ever ever and he doesn't know how to stop himself from doing that.

Then Sam picks the lock and in Dean's distraction the THREETHREETHREE shatters away just like the mirror and he can feel Sam again. He floods through along with all of his devotion and love and compassion.

He stands above Dean and watches down at him and finally sits and Dean stupidly mutters "Watch the glass."

They sit together and breathe together and Sam counts in _one two three four_ , hold _two two three four_ , out _three two three four_ , in _four two three four_ , for the both of them and they sit together and breathe together for a long sixty-four minutes. The panic begins to slowly, ever so slowly, fade away. It's chased by just feeling Sam and soaking Sam in and all his problems should be solved like this, with just lots and lots of Sam.

His panic dissipates and wells up again and then down and then up a little and then down more and then up a little and then down more until he can breathe on his own without Sam working his lungs for him.

Sam is scared because he didn't know this about his brother he didn't know about the numbers he didn't know about the obsession but now he knows and it freaks him out.

"Good, because it's not normal and it should freak you out a little, a lot, more than it actually does, and why aren't you more freaked out?" Dean likes saying things out loud because they disappear faster when they're said out loud. They fizzle out into nothing. Nothing is zero is good is predictable; if he keeps the words stashed away then they get so tangled up with the numbers that he never forgets them ever.

Sam shrugs and Dean tries to stop him because "No that was rhetorical. I said it out loud because I didn't mean it so why are you answering," but Sam gets control always gets control and shrugs like he wants to. "You're my brother."

Dean laughs a little. "That's not good enough." But he can feel it, and Sam is still freaked out, but it is good enough, because to Sam 'brother' is everything, is mother is father is best friend is home, no matter how fucked up they are, no matter how fucked up Dean is, no matter no matter no matter. This is the thing that helps shove everything back into place and he can see again.

Sam knocks his knuckles against Dean's forehead. "Do we have an accord?"

He cracks a smile at that and gets to his feet. "As long as there's beer. I could knock back a few of those and then more, so what do you say Sammy? Let's drink a few."

"I think I could get behind that, even though we just woke up an hour ago." He laugh then reaches up a hand for Dean to help him stand, and doesn't use him so much for balance as something to drag himself up completely by. Dean thinks he could survive suffocation by Sam as long as Sam is smothered right next to him, and he hopes neither of them get goose down in their mouths.

Sam laughs at him and then agrees, only in reverse.

: : :

A couple hours and a few beers later, Sam asks, "You're done freaking out on me, you big baby?" Sam can tell he's stable for now, but he knows that Dean needs him to make light of whatever the fuck happened a couple hours and a few beers ago, to pretend it didn't happen, so that's what Sam is doing and Dean appreciates it.

"What freak out?" Dean asks with a smirk, still feels the roiling panic just under the surface. "Dude, I think your old age is showing."

Sam rolls his eyes and drawls "Ooh, _burn_." Then they look over their beers at each other and laugh.

A few more beers after that and considerably less time than a couple hours, Dean is pretty fucking tipsy. He tells Sam this, even though Sam already knows.

"Dude, you're not tipsy, you're halfway to _wasted_. What the fuck happened to your tolerance?"

Dean shrugs and his body is all beautifully warm and slow and he doesn't have to pay attention to anything that isn't _now_. "I have no fucking clue. Endorpho-whats? I think they're making me all giggly, not the beer. Dude, it's beer. Nobody gets drunk off beer, because it's _beer_."

Sam accepts this with a grave, accepting face as is his duty, but only holds it a few moments before cracking up. "You're such a dork. You think you're a hotshot and all, but you're a soft, gooey dork!" He reaches over and pats Dean's cheek, and Dean scrunches his face up underneath the hand but doesn't flinch away.

Sam gets up after a moment and goes into the bathroom. He fills up all four of the motel-provided plastic cups with water. "Drink up, big boy," he says and hands two over.

"Ooh look at who's being all responsible adult now, Sammy," Dean says.

"I don't know about you, but I don't want to be feeling _both_ of our headaches in a few hours."

"Very good point," Dean says with a nod, and drinks both cups of water down.

They putter around the motel room for a while. Sam takes a few things out of his duffel, puts a few things back, brushes his teeth. Dean settles back into bed and turns on the tv. There isn't much on besides old reruns of "Friends," but that shit is always funnier when you're drunk anyways. He's just dozed off when Sam starts tickling his feet. He tries to move them around out of Sam's reach but Sam is faster and doesn't stop poking and pinching at them.

"Nng, Sam, what the hell do you want?" he asks, too drowsy to decipher any emotion coming off Sam.

"I'm bored," he says. "Come on, let's go get coffee or something and walk off your genius decision of getting drunk first thing in the morning."

Dean lays still and breathes for a couple moments to get his bearings again then sits up. "Okay. Okay, let's do this." He shakes the sleepiness away (and ignores it when it comes crawling back almost immediately) and gets out of bed, then laces his feet up into his shoes.

They find a little cafe in walking distance from the motel room, bright and sunny and weather-worn. Dean gets just a regular old coffee (seriously, what's wrong with normal coffee?) while Sam gets a quad shot small americano and dumps in eight sugars (fuck that thing would burn a hole in the lining of his stomach). They're both still drunk, but drinking coffee helps center his focus. He takes even, calculated sips one two three four five and Sam tries to mess him up with " _sixteen four eight three ten_ " which really isn't that funny, except Sam seems to think it is (Sammy Sam Sam, purveyor of immature jokes for almost two and a half decades; twenty three is two times three which is six, so he'd rather add instead to get five), and he feels everything Sam feels, so he can't stay annoyed for long.

They look at each other over their coffee and giggle like they're kids again. The amusement bounces back and forth between each other, magnified and ticklish, until they're laughing so hard they can't breathe or keep their coffees still anymore.

Sam feels so much affection for him, so affectionate it's almost embarrassing, and Dean sort of blushes. Another time that might have flustered Sam, to get called out on his emotions, but he's drunk drunk drunk, the coffee hasn't sobered him up, so he just smiles wilder and crazier.

That smile makes Dean's stomach flip just a little, makes him his own sort of crazy, because he's the only one who can make Sam look so happy (how did he not see how happy he could make Sam before?) and his fingers slip right off the edge of the cup into his coffee. It isn't really hot but he winces anyways, wipes it on Sam's sleeve when he starts to giggle again.

Dean's mind is hazy and he isn't necessarily the most alert he could be, so he startles when Sam hooks his ankle behind his, accompanied by _contact I need to touch him this can't actually real because we never have mornings like this we're always arguing why do we fight so much when we could always be like this?_

It's uncomfortable to see everything Sam is thinking, to hear something kind of private, but when he tries to separate their thoughts even a little, Sam latches on tighter. " _We have to make this a good thing, Dean_ ," he thinks. " _If we start to resent this happening, even a little, it's going to become ugly and drive us mad. Dean, Dean, this is good; we're both so angry about so many things, so please, Dean, let's try to fix it all. Dean we can use this to get better, Dean Dean Dean Dean."_

Sam keeps repeating his name, over and over like an incantation, keeps the steady pressure at his ankle, makes him breathe deeper, smiles at him because that silly bitch knows now how much Dean likes to see him smile.

Dean nods after a moment. " _You're right_ ," he thinks to him, then yawns and says out loud "Hey, we should probably call Bobby about this."

Sam shakes his head. "Probably, but let's wait a few more hours. He might not be awake yet. Anyways, I can tell how tired you still are, though who the fuck knows why since you just slept for almost twenty hours straight. Let's head back to the motel and you can get some more beauty sleep."

"You know me too well," Dean says back, good humor still floating around between them. "Let me just finish my coffee."

Sam tosses his head back and laughs, long and a little louder than the situation warrants, but there are enough people around that nobody really notices. "I can't believe you sometimes, that you can get up long enough to drink your coffee and then go right back to bed."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, my body knows what it needs most. Nothing can get in the way of sleep." He takes a few more deep sips of coffee, then a couple smaller ones, then brings their cups to the busing bin with the cold dregs left behind in the bottoms. "Okay. Let's go."

It's a quick walk back to the motel and they only stumble into each other twice. Dean kept track, then make sure it didn't happen a third time, because he'd probably faceplant that time. He curls back into bed as soon as they're through the door, too tired to even take off his shoes. Sam berates him, but takes them off for him anyways, and he's asleep soon after.

: : :

Sam wakes him by singing Britney Spears a couple hours later, and the only thing Dean can think is how much it sucks that he knows the words to this now.

He's still drowsy, but it's offset by the sheer fucking _energy_ radiating from his stupid giant of a brother who is standing over him waving another cup of coffee right near his face. If he opens his mouth wide enough maybe Sam will just pour it in? Please? Because he's really warm and doesn't want to move for about a decade.

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes. "In your dreams princess." He peels back the covers and Dean tries to stop him but Sam wrestles him out of his body and wins. "Brush your teeth first. I don't want to hear you complaining all day about assbreath."

Dean grumbles good-naturedly. "Whatever. Minty fresh breath just for you, Samantha." He gets up and ambles his way towards the bathroom.

When they were kids there hadn't been nearly enough money to pay for braces or fillings, so when Dean was twelve and got his first cavity, dad dosed him up with painkillers and yanked it out himself. (On the count of three: one – FUCK OW!)

It hurt enough to feel through the meds (the initial loosening of the tooth slowly back and forth and then a yank all at once), and the feeling of blood flooding his mouth before it was packed was about the grossest thing ever. Their dad was fed up. Sam cried because he thought he was next and Dean passed out moments after the gap was dressed properly. From that day on their dad stressed clean teeth as heavily as clean weapons, which Dean was more than happy to comply with.

Dean brushes his teeth, flosses, brushes again and then rinses twice with mouth wash, just like he has every morning for almost twenty years. There's still a gap in his back molars where the rotted tooth used to be, and his toothbrush skitters into it at every pass.

Sam's own bottom teeth are a bit of a mess and he keeps them hidden whenever he smiles. It's a shame, because Dean likes Sam's full, toothy grin, even thinks the crooked teeth are kind of cute.

Sam pulls a face. "Dude, that's probably the weirdest thing I've ever heard you say."

He spits into the sink and pulls out the mouth wash. "Bitch bitch bitch. That's all I hear coming out of your mouth."

Dean picks up the cup of coffee from the nightstand on his way out of the bathroom, and is about to take a deep, life-affirming sip when he thinks of something. "Wait," he says and stares at the cup for a few long moments, then looks up. "How many times did you pump the coffee pot? I was asleep."

"Just twice," Sam says. "You're safe."

Dean smiles and is ridiculously touched.

"I called Bobby while you were asleep. He has no leads, as expected, and he told us to stop depending on him to get us out of our stupid messes," Sam says with a grin after a few minutes. Dean rolls his eyes.

"What, he can't crack open one of his dusty books and find a magical answer on how to break rare ghost ship curses? What kind of hunter does he think he is?"

Sam laughs. "Apparently not the kind we should be associating with. What do you say we find someone better equipped to saving our sorry asses?"

: : :

It's Sam's idea to go jogging. "If we're going to have any chance of coping with this dumb curse, then we need to learn how to work with it _now_ ," he says in his typical demanding way, and Dean agrees with him up to the " _jogging_ " part. He really hates jogging.

It's not like he's bad at it – quite the opposite, rather – it's just uncomfortable and time-consuming and he'd rather be doing pushups or shooting at targets.

"Shooting comes after," Sam says with a sigh, "just as soon as I know you won't accidentally make me shoot myself in the foot."

Dean concedes (of course he does), but grumbles through putting on his shorts and sneakers as retaliation. "You're a cruel taskmaster, Samuel Winchester."

Sam rolls his eyes and walks out into the warm afternoon. "Suck it up."

Their coordination is a little better with more caffeine than alcohol or fatigue in their systems. They start out just walking in time with each other, quick and synced. Their footsteps are perfectly matched now (one two one two one two one two), crunching along the pavement at an easy pace.

"This isn't too hard," Dean says after a few minutes, and it's not. They breathe together, step together, swing their arms together; the same as any other day. As long as Dean doesn't concentrate too hard on feeling Sam compressed into every part of him, if he tries to ignore the fact that he can't tell the difference between them anymore, then it's the same as any other day. "This would be a fucked-up thing to have happen for people who don't know each other too well, but why would they _kill_ themselves over it? It sucks we got cursed, but we're going to learn to live with it."

Sam sighs and picks up the pace a little. "People just aren't that adaptable to crazy, unexpected things. Look, just imagine-" Sam cuts off his words and instead sends over a series of images and half-formed thoughts. _Dean drinking with some coworker he doesn't actually know very well on the beach all night sees the ship then it's pain and weakness and passing out right next to someone he doesn't know she can read his thoughts can control his movements chained to someone he doesn't care about._

Dean starts to breathe faster and his steps falter. _Okay yeah. Shit shit fuck._ He can understand that terror and how it would drive people to suicide. If someone saw his fanatical devotion to Sam, actually saw it, experienced it, if they saw the numbers if they saw all he lives for then who knows what he would do? _Someone is going to see they aren't allowed to see if someone sees they'll run._

Sam gives him a nudge to keep on going, then makes them go even faster. " _Calm. Calm calm it's okay. Sorry for freaking you out. I'm the only one who's ever going to see you and I'll never run. You're stuck with me for the rest of your life._ " Like last night, Sam is pushing love and steadfast devotion at him, just tossing it at Dean when he's least expecting it and like he has plenty to spare, and then he refuses to take it back when Dean doesn't know what to do with it all.

_No!_ It's not allowed. Sam isn't _allowed_ to need him this much. His universe isn't supposed to revolve around him. Little brothers cut ties with their families, they leave, and if they happen to stay then it's with great reluctance. Obsession like Dean's only ever goes one way.

But here Sam is, shoving his own devotion right back like he needs to prove something. He's shoving it all over Dean and implanting it so it won't leave so it will grow and so Dean might start to believe it.

"You'll believe it," Sam says firmly. He leaves no room for argument.

Dean gives it a moment, then nods reluctantly. "Maybe."

"Now that that's settled," Sam says, "let's turn this into an actual run."

: : :

They get back to the motel nearly an hour later, dripping with sweat. They have the usual mock wrestle for first shower that Dean usually wins because he's older and knows all of Sam's moves, but Sam wins this time because he's quick and is already familiar with the weak spots in Dean's mind and he pressures into one of them. Dean's arm goes limp and it's like getting dead arm but Sam did it with his mind.

"Dude," Dean says, half awed and half terrified. "You just- you made me- you stopped-" But he also says, quieter and to himself (except nothing is actually to himself anymore), " _You did that to me. You stopped me you can stop me you can do anything to me now you can get in me and scramble me up and do anything to me._ "

Sam's face goes from triumphant to placating. "I'm sorry," he apologizes for probably the billionth time today. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Dean brushes him off. He hates being placated. "Go take your shower. You earned it."

There's the quiet stretch of silence that lasts a moment too long. Dean has his back turned to Sam and Sam is watching Dean and trying to apologize, but Sam turns away because he can't find the words or thoughts. Dean has his back turned to Sam so Sam goes to take his shower. "Fine." Dean tries to give Sam his privacy and not pay attention (he's annoyed but not inconsiderate) and doesn't do anything more than purse his mouth and close his eyes when Sam has to stop himself from jerking off (he's also annoyed but thankfully considerate).

Sam comes out a handful of minutes later and then it's Dean's turn for the shower.

When Dean comes out of the bathroom he smiles. He's not really angry at Sam anymore. Sam always scrambles him up, so this routine isn't anything new. Sam smiles back, and the gratitude Dean feels is enough reason for dropping the anger.

"We're hitting the library again, right?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "I'm hoping I can find traces of other people that caught this curse and then survived it. If they exist."

Dean lets out a long breath then grabs a small handful of dice from the bottom of his duffel. It's going to be a long afternoon and he wants something to distract him.

: : :

Driving is actually a little easier now. With a set of eyes on either side of the car, they can meet their sights at the middle of the lane and keep the Impala perfectly centered.

That is, until Sam glances away from the road and over to the laundromat across the street. Dean jerks at the sudden change in scenery. "Fuck! Eyes closed or on the road, Sammy, I'm dead serious."

Dean sees the guilt under Sam's response of "Dude, chill," as he closes his eyes and lets Dean see enough of their surroundings for both of them.

He grins. "You're totally transparent."

They pull into the library's parking lot, about ten miles from their motel. Dean tries to lag behind solely on principle, but Sam just tugs him along and that's that.

The library is nearly empty, same as the other day. The librarian greets them with a pleasant smile, and she's much younger and cuter than the one from before. Dean lets his eyes linger on how her milky pale breasts curve above the neckline of her blouse and lets himself imagine, if just for a moment, what it would be like to pop the buttons open one two three four five and _wrench her head back by her hair pull on it until she gasps then rub his cock through that tight line between her breasts_. Dean snaps his eyes over to Sam, who stops the thought in its track and looks back guiltily. Dean grins and punches him on the arm. " _Keep it in your pants!_ " he thinks to him. Sam blushes and purses his lips.

Their table near the science fiction section is free again and Dean insists on sitting at it. Sam goes straight for the local newspaper archive on the computer and dives right in. Dean knows he should be helping, but Sam actually likes doing this and has a better idea of what to look for, so he just pulls out his dice.

Seven dice, all black and white, all the same exact size. He rolls them on a _New Yorker_ magazine to dull the noise. Double fours, the one is good, he'll roll that three again, three fives are fifteen and those are no good either. He takes the bad dice and rolls them again.

He plays until he either wins or loses. He bends his rules to accept certain multiples, discards the ones he has a bad feeling about, shuffles them around. And then he either wins or loses. He plays for probably fifteen more minutes, just rolling dice and counting numbers and winning or losing and barely takes notice of Sam's frustration. Sam is always frustrated over something.

It's a really good round but Sam doesn't seem to care because the frustration spikes and he slams his pen against the table. "Dean!"

Dean looks up sharply at the noise. "What?"

"That game doesn't make _any sense_! Either play something with real rules, or cut it out!"

Dean knows that Sam understands the rules, because Dean understands them. What Dean knows Sam knows, so he doesn't see what the problem is.

"Because it's _not supposed_ to make sense. The rules are arbitrary and depend on your whims and compulsions rather than a real structure!" Sam sighs and rubs his forehead. "Just, please, not while I'm trying to concentrate on something else?"

Dean nods, even though he's a little stung by the whole exchange. Sam is sorry but doesn't take back what he said.

He digs around for a few newspapers at Sam's command and doesn't complain because it's not like he has anything better to do. Sam is piece-by-piece trying to find others who caught this ghost ship curse and actually survived it, people who learned to live with constantly having someone else in his or her head.

Dean eventually gets sick of waiting around, so he looks closer at the dates that are buzzing around Sam's head, the years and people and hints and-

-and all of a sudden it clicks.

" _Sam! Sam, there's a pattern! We just missed it because we've only found about half of it._ " Dean tries to sketch out the pattern in his head but his thoughts are moving too fast for even him to follow.

"Okay, so it's pretty weird. There are two sets of years the curse cycles through, overlapping each other. Starting in 1922, the year after it went down, someone must have caught it every five years, but at the same time, it was also repeating every eight. It was documented in '22 but not '27, and then again in '32 and '37, skipping '42, again in '47. Nobody drowned in 1930, or '38, but they did in '46, '54 and '62."

"Oh." Sam sees it now but he never would have on his own, and he doesn't get how Dean saw himself.

"It's just the patterns. Sam, I see patterns, that's what I do. _Everything_ has a pattern."

"Okay. Then in that case, we know there must be people who have survived the curse, because a numerical pattern makes too much sense even if this one seems unduly tricky. If we can just find someone else that got it? Dean, if we just find someone else, they can tell us what to expect, tell us if it gets worse, if they figured out a way to make it stop!"

Dean looks over. Sam is so excited, so sure that the answer lies with finding someone who has survived this. "But how are we going to find record of survivors? The only way you were able to find the people that died from it was by figuring out where they killed themselves and piecing it together with psychological symptoms that they showed beforehand, which were only publicized because it was part of the whole suicide package. Without the suicide, going crazy wouldn't have made the headlines."

Sam leafs through some of his print-offs as if the answer is just going to jump out at him. Dates, names and relationships are all circling through his head at an ungodly speed, so fast it's making Dean dizzy. "But some people mentioned seeing a ghost ship, so if I looked through old blogs or journals or…"

"But that would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. There have been so many wrecks here that there must be other ghost ships, so how would you even know if they saw the right one?" Dean rubs his forehead to try to stave off the headache that must have come from Sam. "Want to just get out of here and come back tomorrow? We got a late start so it's about to close anyways."

Sam nods but the humiliation and anger of giving up, if even only for the night, is stifling.

"Sam," Dean says quietly and tries to send as much calm his way as he can. "We're going to be okay. Please don't freak out."

The silence stretches for a time while Sam stacks his anger into neat piles one on top of another and pushes it all into a corner. When it's done he doesn't have to acknowledge it anymore, so he gives a small smile and is good enough again. "Do you have anything in mind or are we just going back to the motel?"

"Let's go get something to eat, maybe have a few beers. We should take advantage of all the lonely women on vacation, Sammy!"

His eyes must be glazing over because he's thinking about all the things he'd love to do to a beautiful girl tonight and he has a habit of staring off into space at times like these. He could eat her out so messy that he slides right in, take her from behind against the wall out back _bite her shoulder fuck her so hard her feet come off the ground hold her tight tight tight so she can't go anywhere_ fast and she'd take it so well, moaning and moving like she can't get enough _fingernails digging in and she's coming apart at the seams._

Dean coughs and adjusts himself in his pants, not even trying to hide it because Sam can tell anyways. " _That was awkward_ ," he thinks, because he can't tell what part of that was his and what was Sam's and now their fantasies are getting tangled up with each other's for fuck's sake. Sam shifts a little, moves his shoulders around because he isn't exactly sure where they're supposed to be right now, what emotion they're supposed to convey for this incredibly weird situation.

"Hey, dude, it's not a big deal," Dean says, discarding the awkwardness since some things are more important than that, like making sure his little brother doesn't start feeling guilty over stuff that's out of his control. "It's not like I didn't tell you everything back when we were teenagers, right? Now you'll get to see me in action, too. You might pick something up for once!"

Sam grimaces and says "Dean, grow some tact."

: : :

Every bar and diner and restaurant they pass on the way back from the library is packed with tourists. Most of the places are way too overpriced even for D. Hasselhoff's card and nobody in those places are looking for a quick hookup, so in the end they decide to play it safe. They park the Impala back at the motel and walk about half a mile to a small dive where the music is loud and the beer is relatively cheap. Dusk is just falling and the night is still young. " _We've survived nearly two days of this shit,_ " he thinks.

They sit in a low-lit corner and order burgers and beers, plus a salad for Sam and a couple shots of whiskey for Dean. They sit back and chat and eye all the girls walking past, except this is a whole new kind of weird since Sam, apparently, has a completely overactive imagination to compensate for his problem of never getting laid.

Dean has always loved undressing hot girls with his eyes, imagining what she would look like without her small dress and what he could do to her to make her scream, but Sam takes it to a whole new goddamn level. Almost every cute girl he sees, and some that aren't quite as such, he mentally strips down and bends over the nearest surface, fucks her tight pussy or her ass or her glossy mouth, all in fleeting mentions and subconscious thoughts, as if he can't help himself.

The first time wasn't completely unexpected, because _holy shit_ Dean was looking at her like that too, all hourglass figure and ash-blonde hair and blue eyes and pouty lips. After the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh time it happened he grew more and more amused.

"Dude, I've known you your entire life and you'd think I wouldn't be surprised by anything you do anymore, Sammy, but _damn_. What the hell are you doing as such a monk? You have way too much repressed sexual energy to be healthy." There's a frantic, horny vibration in the tips of his fingers and the back of his mouth that nothing, not even acknowledgment from Dean, is damping.

Sam shrugs, taps a beat on the tabletop, but his mind cycles through " _I still miss Jess. It's nerve-wracking to talk to girls in bars because I won't ever actually know them. What if she's someone I'd hate? It's so awkward and I never figured out how to make instantaneous connections with just anybody._ "

" _That's why you stop thinking with your upstairs brain and let your downstairs brain take over. Sammy! You need some action in your life, man._ "

Sam shakes his head tightly, and even without the curse it would be obvious to Dean that he's uncomfortable and nervous. He can feel the little security bubble Sam's built up around himself that keeps out _intruders people he doesn't know they can get in and hurt him and they're not safe only Dean is safe._

Dean swirls his beer around, then puts it down in favor of his third shot. "Whatever floats your boat, but let me tell you, it's even better in real life." He eats peanuts in counts of two, crunch munch, and tries not to look at Sam too closely.

"Yes, Dean, I remember. It's not like I've never gotten laid before."

"Well it's obviously been too long."

Neither of them can help being horny at this point. They're both periodically shifting in their seats and adjusting the inseam of their jeans. It's fucking embarrassing, is what it is, but that doesn't keep Dean's eyes off those girls' legs, or stop him from thinking what they'd feel like wrapped around his waist. He shouldn't be this turned on when his brother is watching from inside his head, but he's always been a bit of a showoff.

Sam scoffs. "That's for sure."

Dean throws a french fry at him. "Oh shut up."

Sam picks the french fry off his jacket and eats it. Dean feels his hesitation to say something, so he silently urges him on. "Look, it's getting a little late, so I'm going to head back to the motel. I didn't get my mid-morning princess nap like some of us, so I'm just going to…" He cuts off and blushes, realizes that it's no use wasting breath on white lies. He's still humming with tension and a bar full of hot girls obviously didn't do anything to lessen it.

"Going to go back and jerk off?" Dean asks with a shit-eating grin. "Good on you. Think it'll make you less bitchy tomorrow?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. Go get laid or something, and try not to bother me too much with it."

"I'll land the prettiest girl here, just for you," Dean says. "It's not like you're willing to go the extra mile to get someone in bed, so you might as well live vicariously through me." He rolls the base of his beer bottle around on the table, around and around, and concentrates on that instead of Sam's face because that was kind of weird even for them, and he doesn't know how Sam will take it.

Sam just raises an eyebrow and chuckles. "That statement was _way_ too well-adjusted for you, Dean. Look at you, all accepting of our situation and shit." He finishes his beer and stands up. "I'm out of here. Don't stay out too late."

"Yes, mom."

Sam walks out and seizes up whenever anyone brushes up against him. The air outside is balmy and refreshing compared to the stifling bar, but Dean concentrates on ignoring all sensory perceptions coming from Sam since it's completely distracting when he's not right next to him. Instead, he gets up and walks over to the girl Sam had been staring at in particular all night, the one with the hourglass figure and ash-blonde hair and blue eyes and pouty lips.

"Hey," he says with a smile, tries to make it look honest and and friendly. "Can I buy you a drink?"

: : :

It only takes him about ten minutes to get Gloria practically eating out of his hand. She's grinning boldly and pushes her breasts together even tighter and steps just a little closer. She likes math and ancient civilizations and birds, but when she starts to ask who he had been with earlier and what he did for a living, he puts his hand on her waist, slides it up and down the sleek material of her dress and says "Hey, want to take this somewhere else?"

She smiles, then reaches over to grab a napkin to wipe her lipstick off with. "Yeah, I do. Is out back good enough for you? My sister works early tomorrow so my place isn't a great option."

Dean grins. "That's the best damn idea I've heard all night." He runs a hand across her bare shoulders, rubs circles with his thumb one two three four, her skin so soft compared to his hard calluses, then pulls her tight to his side. "Shall we?"

Sam had gotten back the the motel room a few minutes ago, stripped down and is now brushing his teeth. He's concentrating so hard on Dean and Gloria, an all-consuming concentration that he hardly even registers spitting the toothpaste and sliding into bed.

Dean leads Gloria into the single-occupancy men's room and locks the door behind them. He pulls her close to him, runs his fingers through her hair once twice thrice and again, then gives it a sharp tug. She gasps but smiles immediately after. Dean slides his hands down down the steep curve of her back until they rest on the perfect swell of her ass. He grabs ahold and pulls her even closer, even tighter so he can grind into her, quick jerks and small circles.

Sam is stretched out in bed now, so deliciously turned on. He rubs his cock through his boxers, pulling on it and teasing the head gently with the thin cotton. His eyes are closed and he leans into each pass of his hand, lets out a huff of breath every time his arousal trips up and up. Dean feels every movement spike deep in his stomach.

Gloria reaches up to knead her fingers on Dean's neck, then pulls him down to kiss him. She opens her mouth immediately, drinks him in. He kisses her back, controlled and steady but with a hint of teeth.

Sam is almost all the way hard now. He's eased his cock out of his boxers, which he then pushes off his legs. His touch is a little tentative, kind of teasing.

" _Just go for it, Sammy_ ," Dean thinks as he starts to get his hands up under her dress. " _It's like when we were younger and you would watch sometimes. Peeking through the door or pretending to be asleep in the motel. You were such a little perv, huh Sam?_ "

Sam gasps in a sudden breath and jerks himself faster. " _Stop messing around and fuck her already!_ " he thinks, then takes enough control over Dean's body to hike Gloria's dress up past her waist and to spin her around. He makes Dean press her up against the wall and sink to his knees behind her. He gives back most of the control and watches as Dean flicks his tongue forward to taste her. She gasps and tries to roll her hips back into Dean's mouth but his hands on her waist keep her steady.

He darts in again and goes for her clit, burying his mouth deep between her legs to reach it from behind. He sucks it between his lips and worries it with his tongue. Gloria pants and her legs are trembling like she wants to slide down to the floor and fall apart. She's so wet and it's smearing all around his mouth and nose; he's going to smell like her for hours. The idea of that only makes him press closer and lick harder.

He lets go with one hand so he can reach down and rub his cock through his jeans. He pops the button and draws down the zipper so he can pull it out and finally finally wrap his hand around it. It's so damn good and he bucks up into his hand. He's been wound tightly for long enough that this is making fire slam through every pore. Everything that Sam feels Dean feels just as strongly. His pent-up sex drive, his over-sensitive skin, his buried frustration and his tight stomach are all superimposed into Dean's head and it sends him spiraling further and deeper into themselves.

Sam is sprawled out in his bed completely blissed out, rubbing his hard cock and smearing the precome around, his mouth open as if there was a girl riding his face. " _Please Dean, please_ ," Sam begs, trying to stand up in Dean's body but too lost in pleasure to get the coordination right.

" _Oh god_ ," Dean thinks and his mouth goes slack against the inside of Gloria's thigh. His stomach feels like it just collapsed with filth and disgust and so goddamn hot he can't remember how to breathe. " _Fucking hell, Sammy_."

Gloria is a begging, whimpering mess against the bathroom wall, her legs and stomach weak against Dean's hands. He stands up and takes a moment to take out and roll on a condom, then wraps an arm around her waist to help keep her upright. He leans forward far enough to bite her ear, a warning of sorts, and starts to slide his cock into her.

Dean thrusts forward shallowly, sinking in and out and in and farther and in until he's finally deep deep in her, all the way as far as he can. Gloria is breathing hard and she shifts around to try to adjust. Dean rocks back and forth minutely, keeping mostly still but trying to relieve some of the maddening arousal. He drags his hands over her beautifully soft skin to tease a nipple, then dips a hand down to rub at her clit and to touch the stretched skin where his cock is pushed so deep into her.

She rubs herself back on Dean, panting and whining and unbelievably slick. Sam clenches his teeth way too tight and almost stops breathing from the sheer ecstasy, because months of getting off with just your hand is months of knowing what you're missing, and _oh fuck_ this is what he had been missing. His skin is so hot it feels like it's dissolving off and he's writhing on the bed like a starved addict. It's like being his younger, voyeuristic self again, hungry to know everything about Dean, except he's touching the girl himself, touching her right alongside his big brother.

Dean fucks up into Gloria harder because this right here is driving him absolutely insane. He knew from the start that this would be weird, a little too intimate for their comfort levels, but he didn't think of how Sam would be _right there_ , or how he would feel his brother fall apart because of him. He fucks her while Sam fucks his fist and they're both panting hard, Sam into his hand and Dean into Gloria's neck.

Sam bullies his way into Dean's control until he can trap Gloria's wrists in front of her with one hand and wrenches her head back by her hair. He lowers Dean's mouth to bite her, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough that she clenches her entire body tighter tighter and oh right there that feels like heaven. He fucks her a little rougher and tightens his arm around her torso.

She's so slick and so hot and so soft and Sam's breathy moans fill Dean's head. Sam rubs his thumb over the head of his cock _he's so close_ and again and again because he knows what Dean likes most, then comes hard enough for Dean to feel it under his tongue. Sam pulses into his hand as he works himself through it. His mind goes completely blank for the first time since this whole crazy thing started.

Dean rubs Gloria's clit almost brutally. Sam's orgasm is still curling his toes, and it makes his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, but she shudders and keens anyways. Dean falters and then his tightly-reined control slips away and he comes deep inside and so damn hot. The pleasure breaks his head open and freezes his limbs. Gloria comes a few moments later, and the way she clenches down and violently shoves herself back on his cock sends him reeling.

" _Oh god oh god oh god_ ," Sam whimpers as the aftershocks wreak havoc through his body. It's too much way too painful and he bites his lip to distract him from _fire burning Dean oh fuck too much_.

The world stops for a minute while Dean catches his breath. He pants into the bare skin of Gloria's shoulder, feels his hot breath reflected right back at him, then pulls out. He peels off the condom and drops it into the trash and zips his wet, softening cock back into his pants. Gloria turns around to smile at him and adjust her clothes back to the way they were in front of the mirror. Her makeup is a little smudged and her eyes are wild.

Gloria pulls Dean down for a wet, shallow kiss, tugs on his hair to bring him closer. Dean smiles against her lips and curls his tongue against hers, slow and playful. She pulls away too soon for Dean's liking and ducks out of reach when he tries to lean in again. She picks her lipstick out of her purse and reapplies the dark red color to her mouth in three graceful swipes.

Dean had his hand on her hip but he pulls it away when she clips her bag closed. "Can I buy you another drink?" he asks with a smile.

Gloria grins back, and her mouth is so much wider and expressive with lipstick. "No thanks, babe. I have to get going home soon. Thanks for the awesome time." She grabs his hand and presses a lipstick mark to his knuckles, then walks out of the bathroom.

Dean follows after a moment and tries not to think about Sam too much. He bypasses a last round at the bar and slowly makes his way back to the motel.

His plan of not thinking about Sam becomes a moot point when he gets back to their room. Sam is laying under the sheet of the far bed, nodding off to sleep.

"Dude, you reek," he says instead of a greeting.

Dean rolls his eyes and collapses on his bed. "You're welcome." He flips his shoes off with his toes and sinks into a light-headed, content sleep.

: : :

Dean wakes up first. The light coming in from around the curtains is turning from dawn to daylight, and it's getting way too bright.

He looks over at Sam, who is still sleeping soundly. He really doesn't want to talk about last night with Sam today so he puts the memory as far from his mind as he can and protects it with a wall of evasion. He doesn't get out of bed yet, just stays under the blankets and stares at the ceiling and listens to Sam's dreams.

They aren't terribly interesting dreams, which is funny, because Dean sort of assumed that Sam dreamed in parallel universes or in arcane languages or in sunny, wild adventures in California.

Instead, he woke up after being asleep for hours in the Impala while Dean drove from coast to coast. In another, which only lasted for about six seconds before moving on, he poured a shot of whiskey and holy water for dad. Then he slips into a completely different consciousness and Dean doesn't even register his dreams anymore.

And it's not like Sam is awake, right? So his brain forgets about the ban he put on examining what he and Sam did last night, and he trips right into the thick of it.

He fucked Gloria and she was hot, but Sam had watched and felt all of it, and it had been uncomfortably intimate for them. Dean's stomach flips over. He doesn't want to think about Sam like this because it's awkward and his mouth tastes like bile and it might possibly possibly have been kind of arousing.

Dean proves unsuccessful at not thinking about all this for a few minutes, then Sam rolls over onto his back and it turns out Sam is just as bad at not-thinking about it as he is.

Sam starts to dream again. This time he's right here in their same motel room. He's still on his back, but he's jerking off under the covers, and Dean is laying next to him on top of the comforter, just watching his face. In the dream, the only thing Sam can concentrate on is Dean's eyes on him. He's breathing hard and hot so apparently it feels pretty great to be stared at by your brother.

Oh, fucking hell. One two three four–

Dean wrenches himself out of Sam's head. The dream continues in the back of his mind, but he's no longer living that brief second in full detail. He throws off the covers, stands up and ignores Sam in one motion. He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and hyper-focuses on the sound of it filling his senses enough that he can drown out Sam.

He spits, rinses, swishes around mouthwash, brushes again, and decides against flossing before going back out. Sam is still dreaming, and although the dream has shifted (are they shellfish now?), Dean hums AC/DC and tries not to pay any attention. He really wants to get some coffee in him before the awkwardness sets in.

: : :

Dean is dressed and on his way to the coffee shop when Sam wakes up. If he remembers the dream, he doesn't dwell on it, he simply sits up and blinks blearily at the carpet.

" _Morning sunshine_ ," Dean thinks at him as he walks up the steps into the café one two skip the third four five tap six seven.

" _Good morning_ ," Sam thinks back. " _I'll be right over so get me a coffee and a bagel and find a table_."

Dean laughs. " _Bossy, bossy! Do you get off on ordering me around like this?_ "

Sam shrugs a little. " _Well it's pretty awesome when you do things I tell you to do without complaining, so you should probably shut up right about now._ "

Dean pulls a mental face at Sam, but doesn't try to press his case any farther. The café is packed full and there's a line a few people too long. There's nothing to do now but accept his fate and wait with everyone else. " _You have a highly evolved sense of entitlement when it comes to me, you know?_ "

Sam smiles in that smug way he does when he's particularly pleased at getting his way.

He drives the Impala over the few blocks between the motel and the café so that they can go directly to the library again after they get coffee and breakfast. He walks up the stairs one two skip the third four five tap six seven like Dean, and slips through the door just as a couple gets up from their table. He sneaks over and snags it before anyone else can. " _You're focusing too hard on not thinking about last night_ ," Sam thinks from the safety of half a room away.

Dean refuses to fall prey to the bait and avoids the topic even more vigorously. He hums Metallica until it's his turn to place his order. "Medium coffee, small Americano with four shots of espresso, a bacon and sausage breakfast sandwich and an everything bagel with cream cheese, please," he tells the cute barista. (And seriously, when aren't baristas cute? They make his coffee, which automatically gives them a huge advantage.)

"Would you like the bagel toasted?"

"Yes," Dean responds with a smile. Smile nicely and she won't know he's possibly having a semi-incestuous crisis in his head. Smile smile smile away.

"Could I get a name please?"

"It's Damien."

"All right, Damien, it comes to $16.75 please."

Dean rolls his eyes at the overpriced tourist trap prices, but pulls out his money clip where all the bills are in order and all facing the right way. He has a stack of twenties and ones, but no fives, so he gives her twenty two dollars. He likes to keep his money in as high values as possible, which means ridding himself of ones in order to get a five in return.

He's pretty good at not thinking about it regardless of what Sam says, so when their order comes up and he brings everything to the table that Sam acquired, he can look him in the eye and smile no differently than any other day.

Sam won't quit looking at him though. Even when Dean looks away, he sees himself in full-on Sam concentration, but he refuses to think about the reason so the only thing Dean can do is wonder what's going on in his freaky head. " _Sammy, Sammy, what's so important?_ "

Sam shrugs and eventually tears his eyes off him but still doesn't give any indication of what was so engrossing. They finish their coffee in near silence and then pack up to head back to the library unceremoniously.

"Hey Sam," Dean says out loud on the way to the car because out loud is more solid than thought. "What do you say we look for a new case just in case we can't figure ours out?"

Sam would have disagreed any other week; he has the pursed lips and furrowed forehead that forewarns a bitchface. However, he sighs and nods. "Fine. There's probably only so much we can find about the curse."

Dean looks over. He looks at Sam a moment too long because that wasn't quite right, was it? But there it is. It seems like Sam gets that it could all be a dead end and maybe they're going to have to ride this one out, hopefully winning against all odds to keep their lives.

: : :

As Dean expected, the library doesn't yield many more results. Sam compiles two lists: one for the people that caught and died from the curse, and the other for people who most likely outlasted it. Of the few probable survivors, none are still alive.

Someone from the more recent sets of victims has a cousin living nearby, and that's the closest they've found to a lead so far. "Do you want to come talk to Clarence Shedd with me?" Sam asks after another hour of chasing down bad leads.

Dean looks up from his computer. "Well, I've been digging up a few other cases for us to look into, so why don't you go talk to him while I finish up here?"

Sam turns and levels a bitchface at him so fast Dean gets dizzy. "Dean, seriously? Why do I get the feeling you don't care about breaking this curse that, more often than not, makes people kill themselves? A little enthusiasm, please!"

Dean shrugs and squints at the table. One two three four knots in a square suppress the anger. "But there are survivors, we think, and the mind reading bit isn't that bad, right? Sam, people are dying out there and we're just sitting here trying to solve a problem that won't necessarily get in the way. I know rationality is usually your thing, but apply some objectivism and be real."

They stare each other down for a few moments, and they have both gotten better at hiding their thoughts from each other. Dean knows Sam's annoyed and feels a little betrayed but he's keeping specific thoughts tight to his chest. " _Okay fine, dickhead. I'll talk to the cousin and you keep looking for another case, but if he knows anything we're following it through._ "

Sam takes a moment to pack up his backpack. He holds his hand out for the keys. " _I shouldn't take more than an hour_ ," is the last thought he directs at Dean before leaving with an angry posture tightening his back.

Dean hates the satisfaction of getting his way, feels dirty and manipulative, but instead of dwelling on it for any significant amount of time he kicks his feet up into the chair Sam vacated and goes through recent newspapers from the surrounding areas.

: : :

Like he said, Sam gets back an hour later. His face is tightened into a scowl and there's a dark cloud over his eyes.

"What did you find?" Dean asks, sensing the potential threat and completely disregarding it.

"The guy wasn't too thrilled to talk about his cousin, and when I asked if she had mentioned hearing voices he got angry and threw me out. Said I was dishonoring her name by implying she was crazy." Sam is tapping his foot and fingers in counter rhythm to each other, but it's uncoordinated like he isn't giving it much thought. Sam lets Dean into his body long enough to even out the syncopation and there now his world is better.

"Anything else?" Dean asks.

"You could have paid attention, ass."

"Yeah, but I was multitasking. You didn't actually find anything useful, huh?"

Sam rolls his eyes upwards. There's something frustrating him to the point of madness but it's hidden and fuck him for hiding shit. "Dude, you're overreacting _so much_ ," he grits out around clenched teeth.

"Oh, so you think you can tell me when to shut up now, is that it?" An irrational anger settles over Dean. He hates being a bitch but dammit Sam drives him up the wall sometimes.

"Yeah, well when you're calmly walking to your death, I can tell you to do whatever the fuck I want," Sam spits back. He flares his nostrils and the anger multiplies between them.

"If we're on a goddamn timer, then I'd rather spend my last days doing what we usually do, not waste them away in the library hoping for a clue to spontaneously materialize."

"But we can't just give up! Not when there's even a _tiny_ chance we can guarantee ourselves an out on this thing."

"That's the thing though, Sammy. We'll probably both live and maybe both die, but neither of us will be left behind so can't we just take this as it comes and hope for the best?"

"Then what about killing the demon? Is that not important to you anymore? I mean, a year ago that used to the the only thing you could focus on! Or what about Bobby? Do you want to die on him without doing all we can to stay in the game?"

"Shut up. Of course I still want to kill the demon," Dean says, but is at a slight loss for what else to say. On one hand, killing the demon and getting revenge for his parents is one of the most prominent things on his mind, but on the other hand, he's just so tired and wants to live out his theoretically last living days with his brother and a minimal amount of research.

Sam tries to push his anger aside. " _Okay, this is so not helping. You're right, let's be rational. Just breathe in and out, one two three four five, and not be so mad okay?_ " Sam pleads, partly to himself.

The library is quiet and Dean focuses on that while trying to do what his brother asked.

"It's just not like you to give up like this," Sam tries again.

Dean mentally shushes him. "I'm not being angry, just like you said. Be quiet."

Sam grits his teeth. "But there's a very obvious problem at hand here that you're brushing off like it's nothing. What's holding you back?"

"Sam! What did I just say? Shut the fuck up!" Dean snaps. "I'm trying to be calm and civilized here, but that isn't going to work if you keep dragging up the subject."

"And we'll never accomplish anything unless you stop avoiding stuff you don't want to deal with."

Dean doesn't want to think about how all he wants to do is disappear into the thick of America with Sam and forget about the dumb monkey wrenches the universe throws at them.

Instead, he takes another deep breath. "Fine. Fine, what you said. Let's start at the beginning with what we know about the curse. There's definitely a pattern to the ship sightings and it curses partnerships with mind-reading, which is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, by the way. The victims usually drown themselves but we don't know why. It could be the curse driving them mad, or maybe something about it is compelling them to take the dive. Who knows. At this point, I just want to know why they kill themselves so we can try to prevent it."

: : :

"Sammy, come on," Dean says for probably the eighth time in an hour.

"You're whining," Sam replies. "Just another hour, okay?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fuck you. We could be physically training ourselves with these constraints and that would be productive too, so why can't we do something I'd actually enjoy instead of fermenting here?"

"Don't be so melodramatic. We'll leave soon." Sam flips through a few more pages of old newspapers on the computer's archive.

Dean rolls his head back and lets out an exaggerated groan of despair. "Fine. I hate you."

"Whatever. I'm perfectly justified in pissing you off right now."

"Fuck that. You're just a Sherlock Holmes wannabe; I want to go _do_ something," Dean says. He braces himself for Sam's bitchface, but instead he just smiles a small, sarcastic smile at him and then they're better than they were a few minutes ago.

A couple minutes later Sam starts to lose his thunder and rethinks his anger. Dean laughs in triumph because he's as good as won this round, and it's his duty to be thrilled.

" _Yeah, you won this one. Stop gloating._ "

_"Nope. I get gloating rights for the rest of the day. Deal with it."_ He stands up with a stretch. " _Pack your bags and let's hit the road."_

: : :

They drop everything off at the motel and since the sun is still beating down like unforgiving sin, Sam makes Dean put sunscreen all over his face, neck and arms. "You'll burn like a tomato," Sam says when Dean tries to protest. "Then you'll complain when it hurts and make me buy you aloe while you pretend to be incapacitated. No thanks."

Dean rolls his eyes but succumbs. "Okay fine, jerkwad. This one time."

"And for the rest of the week, too. You're already more freckled than a few days ago, and don't think I forget how much you complain about them." Sam shrugs. "I win."

: : :

They find a more-or-less secluded strip of beach a few miles from their motel.

"Same old rules?" Dean asks out loud as he shakes out his limbs and stretches a little.

Sam nods.

"No face shots, no tickling, no mercy," Dean says for posterity. "Also, no mental shenanigans. When I win I want it to be fair and square."

Sam rolls his eyes but smiles and accepts the additional term. "On the count of three?"

"Yeah."

They face each other, crouched down a little. "One…two…three," Sam says and they jump towards each other. They throw and dodge punches, having a hard time controlling solely their own motions. They circle each other, darting in and out of reach, sneaking in jabs and blocks.

Eventually Dean realize he's nowhere near gaining the upper hand, so he bends down even further to slam his shoulder into Sam's abdomen and yank his knees from under him, knocking them both to the sand. They roll around on the ground for a couple minutes until Dean finally gains control and pins Sam down. He grins at him from up above and Sam grows and mock bites at the air from beneath.

"What'll you do now, huh, Sammy?" Dean asks with a smirk. Sam looks back at him a little too closely and Dean is starting to get suspicious when Sam loosens the hold on his wrists enough to dart his hands in past Dean's defenses like fishes, and tickle ruthlessly at his ribs.

Dean tries his hardest not to make a sound. He lets go of Sam and jumps away, but Sam's fingers follow, tickling up and down and up and down his sides. Dean tries to elbow him away, hit him or knee him, but Sam is a determined little shit, always wanting to make him scream.

"You cheater!" Dean gasps once he manages to slip Sam's reach. "I fucking hate you!"

Sam is practically rolling with laughter, bursting with smug pride. "Some things are too tempting to pass up." He stands up and brushes himself off. "No hard feelings, yeah?"

Dean flips him off. "Whatever. Want to go again? And don't think you'll be able to pull that over me again, you two-timing bastard. Shake on it."

He holds his hand out for Sam to shake in honor, but instead of shaking, Sam just lightly scrapes his fingernails over the sensitive skin of Dean's palm.

Dean snatches his hand back in exaggerated horror, then slaps Sam on the face. "Damn you, that isn't funny."

: : :

They head back to the motel. "We've been here too long," he says to Sam. "It's driving me fucking nuts." He jingles for the keys in his pocket, then unlocks the door. Their motel is a wreck, like usual, with their entire meager wardrobes strewn about the floor. He toes at a shirt by the entrance. It looks as big as a tent so it's probably Sam's, but who actually knows. It's not like they keep strict track anyways.

"So, we take off tomorrow morning and see what's up in Kitty Hawk?" Dean asks. "Even if it's just a basic ghost like I think, it'll be good to get a head start."

Sam shrugs and goes into the bathroom to take a piss, leaving the door open so he can talk unhindered. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Dean sits down on his bed. This motel is the same as any other, with the compact room, beds too close together, ugly clock on the wall, TV in the middle. He stands up again and walks back out the still-open front door. " _Damn, I want a fucking cigarette_ ," he thinks. He sits on the tail of the Impala and jiggles his legs. He's bored and it eats away at him, leaving him with nothing to do but lean on his car and look at the pale sky.

He can tell Sam is rolling his eyes. " _If you smoke a cigarette then it'll be like I'm smoking a cigarette, and that's gross._ "

Dean shrugs. " _Then have one with me instead._ "

" _I don't understand why you think your flawed and faulty logic is persuasive._ " But Sam finishes playing with his hair in the bathroom or whatever he was doing and joins him outside. "Do you have them squirreled away in the car somewhere or is this going to require an expedition?"

"Expedition. Come on. There's a gas station just across the street."

"Okay okay, fine. I'll go. Just let me take a shower first. You might be a dirty monkey who doesn't mind swimming in his sweat all day, but I'm itching to get clean." Sam gives in because it's not like there's anything else to do for the rest of the day but smoke through a pack of Reds.

Dean ignores the jibe. "Yeah, whatever. I don't really give a fuck."

"Yeah, I caught that bit."

Sam is habitually fast at showering, but it feels like forever when Dean is just sitting outside, scuffing his feet in the dusty gravel and feeling the phantom torrent of water on his skin. " _Hurry it up would you?_ "

" _I haven't even touched the soap yet. Calm down_." Sam absently shampoos his hair, skips the conditioner, and finally makes his way to the soap. He drifts off into thoughts about shirts he wants to mend, how much toothpaste is left, that book he finished the other day, and washes down his body. He runs his hands over his tight washboard abs, muscled arms, scarred shoulders, rubs his cock, once, twice, and oh now that feels good.

" _Sam!_ " Dean snaps. " _Bad time_."

Sam pulls his hand away guiltily. " _Sorry oh god that's awkward I mean it was sort of out of line, or rather-_ "

" _Stop. Stop apologizing it's okay_." Dean rubs the back of his neck and tries to not think about it. " _Just. Not now. It's a little weird but don't apologize._ "

Sam rinses off and steps out of the shower. He towels down methodically and is out again in mere minutes. His hair is limp and damp and pushed back awkwardly and uncombed.

"You look silly," Dean says after examining him.

"Better silly than sticky and gross. My balls aren't sweating like some unmentioned brother of mine."

Dean flips him off and starts off across the street. As far as expeditions go, it's pretty unexciting. There aren't any close calls with traffic, nobody tries to rob the gas station, the clerk is disgustingly normal. Dean lights up as soon as he's out of the convenience store, and almost immediately the tremors and restlessness that have been driving him insane all day bleed away.

He smiles around the filter and offers one to Sam. Sam huffs like someone is actually going to judge him for indulging in a smoke now and then.

"Dude. Me and Bobby are pretty much the only two people in the world who know you, and neither of us actually care. Even dad smoked sometimes."

Sam lights the cigarette despite how not-helpful that statement was. "You know, I don't take pride like you do in how few friends we have."

"What, you need something more? I'm not good enough for you?"

Sam laughs and goes to sit down on the curb at the edge of the parking lot. He shakes his head like he can't believe Dean sometimes, and the frustration coming from him is enough to make Dean pay attention.

"I'm fine with our life Dean, I've told you before and you _have_ to believe me, but don't you ever want friends sometimes? People to go visit who we don't have to hide shit from?"

Dean looks at him for a while. One two three four five breaths. _Is blunt honesty best in this situation? Yeah, Sam can tell anyways._ "Not particularly. I'm good like this. There's nothing else I need." Dean sits down next to Sam, a little bit too close, close enough that their shoulders are pressed together and their knees knock against each others'. He takes a drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth and letting it out slowly so it trickles past his parted lips in lazy drifts. Sam watches the smoke and doesn't say anything else. They'll talk about it some other day.

They stay on the edge of the parking lot near the ugly old gas station. Cars pull in and out to fill up; they just sit there and smoke and watch the sun set over the strip of hotels and beach.

: : :

The ghost ends up being as easy as they had hoped. A simple haunting of an old unsolved murder, hanging on to the last attempts of revenge. Sam has to dig fast to her remains while Dean distracts her at the crime scene, getting tossed around like a rag doll.

Dean is about to get the upper hand when she bursts into flame. " _You stole my goddamn thunder, Sam!_ " he pants from the floor as ashes flutter down on him. " _I almost had the poker in my hand._ "

" _Which would have worked fine had it actually been made out of iron, Dean_ ," Sam thinks back. " _What would you have done if it was made out of something else?_ "

Dean gets up and brushes himself off. " _Yeah, like what? Fire pokers are made out of iron, Sam. Ever come across any different?_ " He picks up the poker and inspects it. " _Yeah, iron_."

Sam collapses out of the grave in relief that he had burned her in time anyways. " _Whatever, douchebag. I win this round_." Sam drags himself up and shakes off the filth. " _I'll be back to the house in probably ten minutes. Don't be acting suspicious._ "

Dean checks around for anyone coming to inspect the noise, but the closest houses show no sign of waking. " _I'll be fine, just get your ass back here. It's been a long day and I want to sleep._ "

" _Me too. I'll be over soon._ "

He hears the Impala's growl from a distance a handful of minutes later. He slips out of the dark shadows, through patches of moonlight, and in through the waiting passenger door.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam asks quietly. He stares in particular at the bruises on Dean's face and scratches on his upper arm.

Dean laughs. The adrenaline is still bubbling around in him. "Hell yeah. You know I am, Sammy. Come on, stop worrying about me." Dean bounces his knees for the twenty-minute drive back because Sam is driving his baby and it's not that bad since he's only a thought away from being in control, but still he'd rather be behind the wheel himself.

The adrenaline has made him horny and fidgety. Sam yanked him away from death yet again, tying them together with another knot for the collection. It pulls something loose in him that Sam might actually be forever, that Sam will fight just as hard as he will to protect what they've cultivated, not that he's ever doubted that Sam is willing to save his life again and again. It makes his neck hot and his jeans feel too tight and his ribs throb in exquisite pain.

He sits forward suddenly to pop open the glove compartment, and pulls out the pack of Reds. "You want one Sammy?" Sam nods, not because he particularly does, but because Dean is offering and he takes whatever Dean wants to give him.

"Peer pressure!" Dean comments with a laugh and wiggle of his eyebrows.

Sam takes the outstretched cigarette and reaches in to snatch the lighter out of Dean's hand before Dean can use it. "Hey!" Dean says. Sam just lights his cigarette and rolls down the window a couple turns. He takes a nonchalant drag and savors the bitter, pungent smoke. It's only then a couple moments before he turns around and grins because he can't keep up the charade of mock-ignoring Dean anymore. He reaches across the few inches and lights Dean's cigarette for him, kind of an apology, kind of just because he feels like it, and also because it makes a really cool glow on his face. Dean keeps a brief eye on the road so that Sam can watch the flame.

: : :

Sam tosses the car keys back to Dean once they're in the motel room again. Dean tucks them into his pants pocket before taking them off and walking into the bathroom for his bi-daily tooth ritual.

His toothbrush makes shoof shoof shoof noises as he brushes his teeth, but then again it always does.

" _Onomatopoeia_ ," Sam thinks absently while he takes off his shirt and puts on a slightly cleaner one to sleep in. He joins Dean in the bathroom and brushes his teeth alongside him.

"Dork," Dean says. Shoof shoof, one two, shoof shoof. He changes sides, shoof shoof shoof. He doesn't care what the noise is called.

Dean's still jittery, has been jittery for days. He hates having the jitters but he doesn't know how to will them away so maybe they're here to stay this time. It's sort of like after any other hunt, except Sam has the jitters too which makes it all feel more like tenfold, even though it's only the two of them.

He looks at Sam because Sam is already looking at him. "Cigarette?" he asks.

"We just brushed our teeth," Sam declines.

Dean looks down at his toothbrush and shakes the excess water off at Sam's face. "Okay fine, you're right."

They finish getting ready for bed in silence, trying not to think about anything. Sam looks over at him and is kind of annoyed about something, is buzzing with the urge to get angry. He wants Dean to pick a fight and disrupt their peace as a distraction to _something_ he refuses to name. Dean ignores him and keeps his mouth shut because that isn't anything he wants to touch with a ten-foot pole.

Neither of them are tired, but a solitary night off seems like an acceptable way to pass the time. They zone out to some mindless episodes of MythBusters, laying in bed and drinking beer, even though that means Dean will have to brush his teeth again later. It's been a weird few days but goddamn it's always fun to watch shit blow up and get destroyed.

"Hey, you want another one?" Dean asks as he gets up and heads for the mini-fridge.

Sam is about to answer, about to say yeah sure, when his sight catches and latches on to the bare skin of Dean's back. So much skin barely hiding rippling muscles and strong bone and pumping blood. Dean doesn't see what's so fascinating about his skin. " _Living, breathing big brother, that's what's so fascinating_ ," Sam thinks back.

" _Same as every other day_." Dean thinks he should change the subject, and he doesn't want to turn around and look at Sam, because then they could see each other and who knows what that would mean.

" _Yeah, I like that bit too_." Sam wants something, but it's a vague, half-formed want, and Dean can't tell what it is. " _Dean, just look at me you jerk._ "

Dean looks over. Dammit he can't help himself, but if Sam wants something then Dean _needs_ it (or will die trying to convince himself of that).

Sam looks at him dark and focused. "Bring me that beer, you," he says, but there's something cracking here. They're slipping off-script, nearing a line.

He needs to break eye contact, so he pops the tops off the beers with his ring and brings them back, a little tipsy turvy wobbly on his feet. He hands over Sam's beer and then flops down into his bed with a sigh. He counts the empty beer bottles out of habit, just cataloguing the room and keeping track. There are five empties and each of them are working on another.

Things were still today. Long stretches of quiet punctuated by brief conversations, while Sam kept a close eye on him without lending much thought as to why. He feels like he's bubbling over with an itchy, furiously impassioned hunger to see Dean in every single permutation imaginable. He rocks his hips up just barely and lets loose a pleased sigh at the slight pressure.

Dean wishes he was surprised but he can tell that this has been building longer than he should admit. He can't help the arousal that furls out and stains his stomach; he craves this arousal because it's real and it's Sam and it's something only for the two of them.

They lay there and breathe in sync and the heat between them feeds off of each other's. Sam wants to turn his head and look at Dean, but the shame keeps him looking up at the ceiling. He tickles his stomach in circles to distract himself from the _wrong_ and _bad_ and _we probably shouldn't_ until Dean mutters "You can, you know. Look."

He looks and Dean doesn't understand what Sam sees, because Sam thinks he's perfect and kind of pretty and magical. He moans a little at the fierce attention that Sam is directing at him, because Sam is seeing all of him and everything about him, and it's claustrophobic except that it's _Sam_ and so it feels good better than good; if Sam wants it then it's already a done deal, he wants it too.

Sam slips his hand down and rubs himself through his old cotton boxers but he's focused more on Dean's face. Dean's profile, rather, because Dean is staring steadfastly ahead. He's hard – so goddamn hard from Sam's focus on him and he won't let Sam keep his eyes to his half of the room – and he shifts his hips to chase any available friction. He hasn't touched himself yet, can't quite bear to, but he's moments away from giving in fuck the consequences whatever they may be.

" _Just look at me_ ," Sam says in his head, close and intimate like he's whispering in his ear and not a bed away, and he nudges Dean's face towards his. Jesus, there's a difference between knowing Sam's thoughts, and then to see them like proof spread out for him to pick through. " _Don't you realize that's the most I've ever wanted from you? Just look at me see me I'm only your little brother so just fucking look at me and stop staring through me like I'm temporary because I'm not._ "

Sam is almost sliding off his bed on the side closest to Dean to be as near as possible without actually getting up and sliding in with Dean, which isn't something either of them are at all prepared to even think about. He pulls his boxers down past his knees and the rush of satisfaction he feels when he gets his hand around his bare cock makes Dean's mouth water. Sam closes his eyes tight and watches himself through Dean; his arm flexing and pulling, his flushed cheeks, wet mouth, so thoroughly Sam even in this foreign side of him.

He gives in. He can't help himself, not with Sam beating himself off just feet away to Dean looking at him, just looking at him, like he doesn't want anything else ( _Dean the protector provider idol brother everything_ ).

Dean slips his fingers under the elastic of his boxers and starts to pull at his cock before he loses his nerve since this is because of Sam, because Sam wants it, Sam getting him hot and wanting something he's spent innumerable years trying not to think about, Sam Sam Sam, it'll never not be about Sam.

Dean loses himself in the pleasure (he's always been good at that). He has to blink away from Sam because it's a little too much all at once, but the goddamn noises coming from his little brother's mouth are enough to make him to gasp and twitch. Sam is tangled up with him, and so maybe he has every single wire in his brain crossed and knotted and frayed, but that got them to the here and right now, so he can probably live with it.

"Dean," Sam says out loud. "Dean, oh fuck, I can't-- it's so--" He gasps, and with a last squeeze to the head of his cock he comes all over his hand. It's a brutal orgasm and he shivers through the long tremors.

There's no hope of lasting any longer. Dean feels the tension come to a head and he almost chokes on his tongue with how hard he comes. His come is slippery and warm between his fingers, makes his hand glide almost frictionless over his cock as he wrings the last of his orgasm out.

Dean hasn't had a chance to come down all the way when Sam stands up and walks to the bathroom to rinse his hands off. Dean keeps his eyes on the ceiling and gathers his thoughts. Sam walks back with damp hands and a tentative smile, stops next to Dean. "Hey, you good?" he asks.

Dean looks at him and grins because he doesn't know what he's actually supposed to think right now. "Of course I'm good," he says and reaches over to wipe his jizz off on Sam's shirt.

Sam yelps impressively and jumps back. "Dean, that's disgusting! What was that for?"

Dean laughs and gets up to brush the old beer taste out of his mouth.

: : :

"Can we just get out of here?" Dean says in the morning over cups of coffee. "I'm itching to be gone, and you are too, don't lie." He wants to leave so bad it stings. There's an undertow of a compulsion to stay, to see this out, to wait around with their thumbs up their asses and let the insanity consume them drive them mad send them running for the waves, but Dean's ingrained desire to _leave_ and _move_ overpowers it easily.

"Only because of you though. You're driving me nuts."

"I aim to please."

They sit in silence for a little longer. "You're right," Sam says. "Let's take off. I'll keep looking for a cure, but I can do that on the road."

Dean breathes out a sigh of relief.

" _What the hell are you so terrified of? Why do you need to move move move always going?_ " Sam won't look at him though, not really. He isn't looking forward to the answer.

" _Because the stillness gets under my skin and eats me alive. Not running so much as I need change._ "

Sam nods. " _I used to hate it. Dean you don't understand just how much I hated a new town every month, every other month. I like better now, I guess. I grew into it._ "

: : :

Dean clicks the TV on for background noise and packs up his portion of the room. He throws in clothes and dirty rags and odds and ends with no care for organization. He has it down to a quick system, one two three four items, grab another handful of things, so many things but when looked at in the scope of life they own such a bare minimum.

The sky outside is vibrant blue, same as every day they've been here. Dean is sick of it. Same color sky, same humid heat, same bitter coffee, same pretty sunsets. He goes out anyways, leaves the door open so he can hear the television, lights a cigarette and waits for Sam to finish packing.

The news station yammers on and on with dumb stories. A Wal Mart parking lot is getting expanded. A gift shop on the Cape had a shipment of key rings stolen. Dean scoffs. No mention of a grave robbery last night, so he tunes out.

"Help me pack up the car," Sam says, leaning out the open door.

Dean waves his cigarette like a badge of procrastination. "Once I smoke this."

Sam walks closer, has some sort of intent, but Dean doesn't know what for until Sam takes the cigarette out of his hand. "Go bring your stuff to the car. I'll finish it for you." He takes a drag and smirks around the filter. "Chop chop."

"You're a douchebag."

"So you tell me pretty much every day. I don't think I understand quite yet. Tell me again?"

"Douchebag."

"Okay, I think I get it now. Wait, what did you say?"

"You think you're so clever, wise guy?"

"What? I can't hear you. There's a buzzing in my ear, I think it's a mosquito."

Dean punches Sam on his shoulder. "You're a little bitch."

Sam laughs and cocks his head. "What?"

"Sam, I hate you," Dean says and goes to get his bags. "I'm going to leave you on the side of the road in Nowhere, Oregon or something, just you wait."

"It's dumb to tell me these things, Dean. You're giving me plenty of time to plan a mutiny, because we're pretty far from Oregon."

"You wouldn't know Oregon from Texas, what with your shitty navigation skills and how much you sleep, so I don't know what you're talking about." Dean picks up Sam's backpack while he's at it, and brings their total of four bags to the trunk of the Impala, which Sam has graciously opened for him. He arranges the bags towards the back so that they can still get to the false bottom in case they need quick access.

Sam steps up close, probably too close to an outsider's eye, but everything they are is too close, and it's all a matter of perspective anyways. He flicks the accumulated ash off the end of the cigarette and offers the last couple drags to Dean. "Kill it."

Dean shrugs and takes it. Why not.

"So where do you want to go? You're the one itching to leave. Any hunts to track down?"

There aren't any yet. He had found a couple other potentials in the area, but he wants to be gone of the place, so he'll call Bobby eventually and pass them on. No, he just wants to take off, go somewhere fast, and remind himself of the finer things in life.

"We could do that," Sam says. " _The two of us against the world, and we'll always win, right?_ "

Blind optimism isn't their style, but sometimes, occasionally, rarely, he'll indulge in it. " _Batman always wins, what are you thinking?_ " He wants to believe it so bad.

"Hey, I'll go check us out," Dean says moments later, spinning the room key around his finger. Spin and catch one, spin and catch two…

: : :

"Get out some David Bowie. I don't care which one," Dean says as they roar out of the parking lot.

Sam pulls the cardboard box out from under his seat and clicks around until he finds a Bowie cassette with all the tape on one side. His warm voice sings out " _Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing_ " and Dean makes Sam fast forward to the next song because this one is in 6/8 which is a terrible way to start out a day of driving.

They stay on the road all day. Dean wants to drive with no purpose, soak in the ever-changing scenery, see things he's never seen before. So he drives for hours, passing through mostly sun and the occasional rain shower. The outside surroundings slowly shift from East Coast evergreen to dusty southern roads, and he is so glad to be away from the ocean.

Coffee and diner stops are brief but necessary. Dean gets them in and out efficiently and with little flirting with waitresses, cute they may be. They're just as in step with each other as ever, despite the way they can't quite meet each other's eyes or how Sam freezes if Dean touches him.

They aren't talking about it though, even if Sam is busy thinking about something. Denial has always worked fine for Dean, so he sees no need to alter a working system.

Instead, Dean focuses on the feel of the Impala, rumbling and vibrating and completely under his control. When it's like this, he owns the road; he points his car to the west and eats blacktop. There are miles left he hasn't seen, all that unimaginable potential buried under empty highways and a faraway horizon.

Sam is barely awake, with his head against the window and a broad stretch of sunshine across his legs for warmth. He laughs sleepily at Dean's thoughts and things are okay.

: : :

It's their second day on the road since leaving North Carolina. They've been driving all morning and all day and all afternoon. The sun is setting and Sam is dozing off again.

He can't get comfortable against the window though. He fidgets around, tries to shift his bundled-up sweatshirt into a better position, but his head keeps on falling back and straining his neck. He's so painfully sleepy though, and it's made disgustingly worse by the crick in his neck. His mind is filled with discomfort-induced thoughts of North Carolina and getting back there and solving their problem because they still might die or something might happen, this isn't over for good and there are going to be people in the future that have to deal with this. It'll kill most anybody else it seems but they're chickening out and running and now others will die because they couldn't solve it.

Dean shifts in his seat and rubs at the phantom pain in his own neck. "Sam," he says.

"What?" Sam mumbles back.

"Just stop fidgeting and get over here."

Sam looks at him through cracked open eyes. "Huh?"

Dean pulls on Sam's hair and Sam follows until he's laying horizontal with his head on Dean's thigh, Dean's hand still in his hair. "Just go to sleep. You're driving me mad with all your moving around." He has the muscles in his leg clenched past the point of comfort and he can't loosen them for the life of him. It's just that Sam is really fucking close, all up in his business, but he has nobody to blame but himself.

Sam feels his discomfort, of course he does, and he tries to sit up, get away, take avoidance into his own hands. " _Sorry no I'm sorry it's still weird isn't it?_ "

" _Ssh nope we still aren't discussing this._ " Dean thinks and shoves Sam back down. He relaxes his leg muscles by force of will and necessity. " _Just go to sleep._ "

Sam smiles and submits and noses at Dean's jeans. "Fine, bossypants. When did you last wash these?" he asks.

"Shut up."

"No, it's a serious question. I don't want to end up with a grease rash or something dumb and unavoidable."

"For the last time, just sleep, you little bitch," Dean says and presses Sam's face down roughly into his leg. "I'm doing us a favor."

Dean lightly scratches Sam's scalp, one two one-one two, to the drumline of the Zeppelin song he has stuck in his head, one two three four one-and-two-and-one-and-two-and. Sam drifts off again without a problem, humming along as he loses consciousness.

It's a beautiful, lazy afternoon, still miles left to travel. Dean likes looking at the people in the cars he passes, wonders where they're going and why. He keeps a running tally of how many cars he's gone by, adding for each one he passes and subtracting for the ones that pass him.

Two cars pass him one after another, bringing him down to twelve. Dean tightens his grip in Sam's hair and guns it until he reaches up past seventeen. Sam shifts to a looser, more relaxed position and dreams about laying on the roof of the Impala while it hurtles down the highway.

: : :

They drive for a couple more days, chasing exhilaration, only stopping for a few hours a night in forgettable towns to sleep.

After a while, they end up in New Mexico. In the late afternoon, Dean pulls over into a dusty stretch of land with blood-red rocks and a wide, clear sky.

"Mm, home sweet home!" Sam says as he gets out of the car and stretches until his fingers touch the sunset.

Dean shakes out his limbs and walks around the car a few times, partly to stretch further and partly to make sure nothing had happened in the past few hours to the Impala's paint job.

Sam looks at the tall, red mountains rising up in the distance. Big, endless expanses of desolate rock, towering over everything. He wants to run until he gets to them and then climb until he's at the top so he can shout down "Here I am!" to nobody except for Dean.

Instead, he pulls the cooler out of the back seat. They had made a beer and hot dog stop a couple hours back at Sam's insistence.

"Want to build the fire?" Sam asks.

Dean grins. "That's a silly question," he says. "You get to help me find wood though."

They strike off into the dust and rock, scavenging for branches and brush. They steadily build up a pile next to the Impala, separated into kindling and everything else.

" _Help me carry this back_ ," Sam thinks to Dean from a ways off.

Dean looks up. Sam is by the road toeing an old wooden flat. It's dry and battered, prime burning material. He lifts an edge of it to gauge its weight. It's not too heavy, but it's wide and flat and will probably give them splinters.

" _You're a pussy_ ," Dean thinks and walks over. " _Do you need your brave, heroic big brother to swing by and save the day?_ "

" _Har har_ ," Sam thinks back.

The sun is still setting brilliantly when Dean sits down and starts to build the fire. He starts out with small kindling and an old newspaper from the passenger side footwell all stomped and flattened by Sam's sasquatch boots, feeding the little sticks and brush until it's almost self-sustainable.

Sam supervises. He's not as helpful as he'd like to believe. "You know, we have gasoline in the car if you're having trouble," he says with a shit-eating grin that Dean can't see but knows is there.

"But it's all about the _art_ of it!" Dean says. He pokes at the little flame as it stutters out. And it had almost made it too. " _Anybody_ can make a fire if they have enough gasoline at hand."

He tries again. Sam gets bored and wanders off to inspect a cactus, while Dean builds up another teepee of twigs and brush.

This one catches, bless the universe, so Dean hums some AC/DC in celebration and feeds the flames until they've reached a respectable strength. The burning wood twinkles and pops like crystal glasses shattering on the floor. It's a quiet, soothing sound that Dean closes his eyes to hear better. He zones Sam out like a radio in the background, paying only the barest attention to him.

The peacefulness of the desert breaks when Sam lets out an undignified shout and jumps back from his cactus. Dean startles and whips his eyes over to Sam, scanning for the danger.

Except there isn't actually any danger, so to speak, just a scorpion waving its tail threateningly at Sam. Dean shoots his brother a bitch face that could probably rival his own. "Are you serious?"

"It startled me," Sam says sheepishly. "So sue me." He sends it scurrying away with a flick of his boot then retreats back to the safety of the fire. "Yeah, this looks about hot enough to cook over. Do you have any long sticks for us?"

Dean shakes is head. "I didn't look for any. You should go get some."

"But there are probably scorpions waiting for me out there. You can go."

"Wuss. Your boots go up past your ankles."

"But what if they jump on me from up high?"

"They won't. _I_ built the fire so _you_ can go get the sticks. You'll be fine." Dean mentally pushes him away from the fire. "Into the wilderness with you, Indie Jones."

With a grumble, Sam takes off. It's hard to see anything clearly in the fading light, so Dean helps him look. Their combined efforts prove successful after a few minutes, and Sam returns with a small grin.

"Yes, yes, you win a prize," Dean says and takes one of the sticks. He puts it aside to rip open the pack of hot dogs with his teeth. Sam gets the buns out from the back seat, a rare set of New England hot dog rolls he didn't expect to find a hundred miles back.

They share the small cooler-cum-chair, pulled up close to the fire, and burn their hot dogs in silence, drinking their way through a case of PBR.

("Dean, no," Sam had protested back in the store, "that's gross." Dean shrugged, laughed, and refused to put it back, saying "some nights you need shitty beer to remind yourself of how good it can get." Sam tried to grab it out of his hands. "But not tonight!" Dean pulled it out of reach and went to the counter to pay anyways, throwing over his shoulder, "Then you're shit out of luck bud, because it's my pool winnings and this is what I want.")

"What is it about the outdoors that makes terrible beer taste okay?" Sam asks rhetorically.

Dean laughs at him. "See? It's growing on you. Knew it would."

Sam is obsessing over something, something to do with that night about a week ago, but he's suppressing his thoughts the sneaky bastard. Dean wants to avoid the subject for as long as he can, so he thinks " _Sam, for god's sake quit it. Let it go._ "

It's quiet enough that they can hear each other breathing (a little faster than normal) and it's still enough that Dean feels his heart beating, sees his chest jump one two three four thump pump pulse. Sam is thinking hard despite Dean's protestations. He's anxious which is rubbing off on Dean, and it's making their hearts race.

Sam can't stop looking at him. Not staring, but compulsively glancing over and then away, as if nervous to look too long.

(Which is funny, because they've spent their entire lives staring at each other, learning each other, and only now they're wary of eye contact.)

The sun finally dips away after an eternal sunset. Stars and planets begin to poke through the darkening sky, starting with a pale Mars.

They relocate to the hood of the Impala. Dean pulled out an old wool blanket to drape over the cold steel but it barely cuts the chill.

"Why did we come out _here_ to go car camping? At least back in North Carolina it stayed warm at night," Sam grouches.

Dean jostles their knees together. "Because you can't see the stars anywhere better than out here. It's been too long since I felt this small."

Sam smiles and hooks two of their ankles together. "Point taken."

More and more stars appear and the sky grows blacker. " _Hi there, stars_ ," Dean thinks at them absently. " _It's been a long time_." He turns his head to look at Sam. "Hey, do you think we'll ever get to watch one of them go supernova? That would be pretty sweet, huh?"

Sam nods and grins with him. "What's with us and explosions?" he wonders.

They watch each other laugh. "Let's blow something up sometime," Dean says with a smile.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, we could steal a car maybe, bring it out to the middle of nowhere, soak it in gasoline and light it up." He smirks, shows a little teeth, and Sam's stomach flips over.

"Or just find some C4 or dynamite or fucking _anything_ that goes boom." Sam can't keep the excited grin off his face either despite his liberal college instinct that car theft is bad and blowing them up is worse.

"Wuss. I'll train you back out of that, don't worry Sammy. Ooh, we could do the gas thing still but then shoot at it with big guns until something exciting happens."

They laugh with each other, the potential for insanity driving them wild.

The moment passes, and Dean bumps his knee against Sam's to bring him down from the remaining thrill. Tap tap one and two and three and four, and then Sam taps both sets of his toes in two counter beats: **one** one-and **two** one-and **three** one-and **four** one-and **five** and so on.

"See that tiny cluster of stars right there, looks like a little little dipper?" Sam asks after a while and Dean sees it through Sam's eyes because it's so fucking small he never would have seen it otherwise.

"Yeah what about them?"

"Nothing, really, I've just always liked them. The Seven Sisters, daughters of Titan or something. Zeus made them into stars to protect them from some guy that was chasing them down."

"You learn that at your fancy college, college boy?" Dean asks with a laugh.

"Yep. Took a Mythology and Folklore class and man they got some things wrong."

"Like what?"

Sam has to think for a moment because the memories have been fading away and it's getting harder to find them again. "Well, my professor was under the impression that wendios were a kind of mutated werewolf, but I managed to straighten him out."

"That's a relief."

"Tell me about it. Hell, I even managed to score a TA position with him my sophomore year. I got a couple credits to grade tests and papers and to help confused students and-" Sam suddenly bursts out laughing as he lets himself remember, "-there was this one kid who obviously hadn't done any of the readings and she tried to write one of her papers about the Baba Yaga except she only knew the bit about her house standing on chicken legs and then ended up pulling the rest from _Howl's Moving Castle_ which isn't Baba Yaga at all, and then I got to give her a D on it and it was _so satisfying_." He can't stop laughing as he drags up the faint residues of memory.

Dean laughs too because amusement spreads between them faster than the flu. Sam gets up after another moment to pee on the coals.

: : :

Dean is just finishing his fifth beer by now, and is at the point where the alcohol is buzzing through his blood and making him lightheaded and horny. He also has to pee like a racehorse.

"Don't break the seal!" Sam say with a tipsy laugh. He's halfway done with his seventh and the last PBR. "It was a terrible decision on my part and I don't recommend it to anybody! Oh damn I have to go again. Fuck you Dean."

"Fuck you too, motormouth."

"Hey! That is an _unfair_ accusation, asshole. For your information, my voice is melodious and my words are as riveting as--"

"A politician's? Yeah, you're right."

Sam intends to reach a hand over and tickle Dean's stomach in retaliation, but he's not very sneaky when he's drunk so Dean sees it coming a mile away. He rolls out of the way and off the hood of the Impala, and tries not to think about having Sam's hands all over him.

"You're a jerk," Sam says with a pout.

Dean pisses on the back tire, marking their territory against any wayward scorpions.

Sam practically giggles. (" _Whoah I don't giggle!_ ") "Okay I take it back. You're a great brother, protecting me from all the scary scorpions in the night." He slides off the hood and onto his feet as well. "I'll get the other side." He sways a bit and Dean has to steady his feet. Sam looks over the top of the car at him and smiles.

Sam is concentrating too hard on being coordinated, and Dean wants to mess him up.

"Hey Sam," he says conversationally. "Remember that time in Texas, you were probably just a freshman or something, and I had a girl over? I knew you were watching us, getting off to us."

Shock makes Sam freeze up and trip over his own feet. He knows immediately what Dean is talking about.

Dean laughs triumphantly. Sam is always too composed; panic looks good on him.

"What? I mean -- how -- you -- I was just --"

"Shut up and calm down."

Sam close his mouth and looks away, but his fingers are trembling as he zips himself up, and he's too involved in his little freak out to recognize how much Dean is enjoying himself.

"Sam," Dean says after a couple more moments. "As fun as it is to see you like this, I have no idea why you think I'd be angry at you over something that happened more than ten years ago, especially given the things we've done in the past month."

Sam nods and takes a deep breath, but his heart is still racing. "You're cruel."

Dean cackles. "You'd be lost without me."

Sam forces himself to look back at Dean. "Well, did you know I jerked off to that for _years_?"

Dean feels like he's been punched in the gut. " _Jesus_ , Sam!" he says.

Sam laughs at him, a bright, silly laugh. "And that's payback, fucker." Sam is laughing, but he's nervous and isn't sure where this is going, is wary to assume anything in favor of what he wants. He twists his fingers together and remembers looking through the crack in the door at Dean (his perfect, idolized, adored big brother) making love to his girl of the week like she was the only thing in the world.

" _It wasn't like that, Sammy. Not like that_ ," Dean thinks and chokes on a moan as the arousal that's been teasing the edge of his consciousness all night trips into full force with the old memories. " _I knew you were there and I put on a show because you hadn't gotten laid yet and didn't watch enough porn. God, Sammy, it drove me crazy, you watching. I could hear you jerking yourself, you didn't know how to stay completely quiet and oh fuck, Sammy, the way you sounded_." Dean leans against the drivers side door and widens his legs a little so he can rub himself through his jeans.

" _You fucking exhibitionist_ ," Sam thinks. He unbuttons his jeans and slides his hand inside before he can convince himself that it's a lousy idea. " _The sad thing is, I never should have expected any different_." He jerks himself to Dean's memory of getting off on him watching, what it was like to have his little brother's eyes on him.

" _What are we even doing?_ " Dean wonders, mostly rhetorically, before slipping his hand down his pants. He drops his head back onto the top of the car and moans loudly, all real but emphasized for Sam's benefit.

" _Now isn't the time for philosophy, but I believe the beer made us bold_ ," Sam says and giggles at his alliteration. He looks at Dean, looks as hard as he can because he's allowed to now, because Dean likes it. He remembers, in as clear detail as he can manage, the smooth roll of Dean's hips, his flexing thighs, his hitched breaths, the way he kissed her mouth neck face and made her choke on pleasure.

" _And this isn't really the time for word play, Sam_ ," Dean thinks back with a mental eye roll. He gorges himself on Sam's attention, lets it curl through him possessively and he can't absorb it fast enough. They've spent their entire lives watching each other but never knowing the other was watching back just as closely, so this confirmation of pretty much everything he's ever wanted is enough to leave him a strung-out mess held up by just his car and his little brother's will.

" _Sammy, Sammy_ ," Dean gasps inside his head because keeping it bottled up means the words get tangled with the numbers get caught and kept and can never slip away. He slides his other hand under his shirt, drags it over the tight, hot skin of his stomach and digs his finger tips in between two of his ribs because Sam likes a little pain to amp up the pleasure.

Sammy, little Sammy little brother, who wants to come around the car and get on his knees in front of him and worship his body with his mouth and teeth, who wants to rip welts in his back to declare him " _Mine, you're mine, you're mine_ ," who wants to suck bruises into his chest and arms. Sam wants to bite him until he bleeds and then feed on the blood and secondhand pain. He wants to stay on his knees before him for hours until he's stiff and sore so that Dean puts his hands in his hair and looks down at him and doesn't see anything else and is pleased by what he sees.

There's also a part of Sam that's whispering how much he'd like to draw Dean's pants down and run his nose through his pubic hair, tug at it with his teeth little pinpricks of pain, get his mouth and tongue on his hard dick so he can lick it suck it taste it.

But it's just a quiet whisper, a veiled desire that Sam tries to keep hidden away, as if it's significantly worse than his louder thoughts.

Dean can't stop the sounds that are tearing out of his mouth because he wants Sam like that, wants him to need him. He's a selfish son-of-a-bitch for it, greedy and aching for whatever Sam is willing to give, but Sam wants it too. _Sam wants it too._

" _Yes_ ," Sam agrees. " _Yesyesyes_." He watches Dean fall apart and wishes for more. " _You have it all, anything, everything you want._ "

Dean locks his knees straight to keep from falling over as he nears the edge. He gasps breaths of hot air into the cold night and comes all over his hand. He shakes through it so hard he accidentally slams his elbow into the door.

It's that unexpected hot flare, burning through their pain receptors that makes Sam double over and come in long, wet pulses. Their second orgasm shreds through Dean and he shivers in submission as his body tries to come again.

They don't move for a few minutes, catching their breath and letting the cold air register. Eventually Dean pulls his hand out of his pants. He looks at it with a twisted face of disgust and shakes off what he can, wiping the rest on his jeans.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asks in a quiet voice.

He wants to talk about this.

Dean gulps in air. "Not now, okay?"

Sam is a little hurt, shrinks back into himself. "Um. Okay."

Dean pulls himself back together and looks at Sam, at his guarded, tight face. "Just let me absorb it all, okay? I'm not saying no or shutting you out, but let's sleep on it and think in the morning."

Sam nods and smiles, is so relieved he could fall over.

Dean pushes away from the Impala. He sways on his feet, still kind of drunk. Goddamn.

"Go ahead and sleep, Dean," Sam says. "I want some time to think on my own."

Dean nods. He grabs the blanket off the hood and another from the trunk then settles into the front. Sam tidies up while he waits for Dean to fall asleep, thinking about North Carolina and the jutting cape and the deep waters.

: : :

Dean wakes up early as the sky is turning a smoky light blue, the sun just a hint of light under the horizon. It's fucking cold out.

He sits up and pushes his blankets over the seat back and spreads them out over Sam. He slips on his leather jacket which he'd used as a pillow and puts on his boots before getting out of the car as quietly as possible.

Dean paces in laps around the Impala and tries to figure out what the fuck is happening between him and Sam. To start with, it's pretty obvious by now that his little brother can get him off harder and hotter than anyone else he's been with, and they haven't even--

Oh god.

Dean makes himself focus, makes himself think the thoughts he's never been able to approach before. His knee-jerk reaction is to scream or cough or gag because of the way his stomach twists and churns in horror at the thought of putting his mouth all over Sam, touching him, tasting him.

It's the inborn fear of being too close to his brother. It's an intoxicating fear. Sam was always his to look after and now he wants to mess him up bring him down to his level, down and down. He wants Sam so bad it's smothering him, but more than his own desire he wants Sam to want him just as much.

It was easier before this stupid curse, back when he thought Sam was planning on running back to school any day. Now that he knows Sam is here for keeps, he wants the rest, everything Sam promised him last night.

Sam isn't supposed to be willing to give him all that, which means he fucked up somewhere.

No, Dean thinks and stops that train of thought right there since it wasn't going to help.

He takes a deep breath and looks at the sun rising over the desert for a few minutes. He counts up to ten over and over again until his mind is a blank slate once more and he can start all over.

He remembers the way Sam wanted him last night and his passion and his endless devotion, and he buries the doubt because he promised Sam he'd think about this.

Dean taps his fingers in an absent-minded rhythm as a way to distract that knee-jerk _NO! INCEST!_ repulsion. He imagines reaching up and pressing his mouth to Sam's, softly at first, testing the whitewater.

Even just that makes him shudder and grit his teeth, but he knows he wants this to happen (and more importantly, he knows Sam wants this to happen), and when it finally does, there can't be any lingering incest freakouts laying in wait.

Dean pushes forward again. He pretends to kiss Sam. He'd lick Sam's closed mouth, tease his lips apart and breathe the carbon dioxide from his lungs. He would taste him and savor the taste and sink as close to him as he could get.

Dean blinks a few times and squares his shoulders. Okay so he isn't fully comfortable with the idea of being physically intimate with Sam, but the twisting in his stomach that's trying to warn him away can't stop him anymore.

It's time to do this, before he loses his nerve and slips back into second-guessing himself. He walks the few steps over to the door at Sam's feet. He raps loudly on the window. "Sammy! Wake up, it's time to do your talking thing."

Sam rolls onto his back and squints up at him. "Now? Dean, go away I'm sleeping."

Dean opens the door anyways. "Too bad," he says. "We're doing this now." He pulls the blankets off of Sam and tickles his toes until he squirms awake.

"Okay, okay, you ass. I'm up. What the fuck is so important?" Sam sits up and wants to brush the hours-old beer taste off his tongue.

"Just that I want to do this thing we've been doing," Dean says. "I mean, I can think about it now and I really really want it. I want you. This thing whatever it can and will be." He makes himself look at Sam because otherwise he'd be looking at the sunrise and the sunrise isn't as good as seeing the smile appear and spread over Sam's familiar beautiful face.

Sam smiles and it becomes a happy laugh and he grabs onto Dean's jacket. "Get your ass in here you dork." He pulls him in just this side of too rough. They end up crammed on top of each other, their thighs and elbows and shoulders knocking around.

"Hey you," Sam says. He reaches forward and brushes his fingers along Dean's neck then curls them into his hair, hardly believing Dean is letting him touch and isn't bolting away.

Dean bumps his knuckles on Sam's stomach. It's such a small touch but it's the first one after he's been given permission to do anything and it knocks him thoughtless. He splays his hand out and soaks in the body heat and the living warmth.

Sam purses his lips. " _Yes I know my stomach is cool. Get the fuck over here and kiss me already_." He pulls Dean to him with the hand that's still in his hair and kisses him. It's not as hesitant as Dean was imagining earlier. Sam moans and immediately opens his mouth to him, pulls him even closer as close as they can get. Sam spreads his legs and Dean slips forward between them. He tilts his head so he can kiss Sam harder deeper taste more of him, so much better than he could have ever imagined.

Sam puts his hands all over him, can't possibly touch him enough all at once. So much warm skin, so much time to account for. He bucks under him, a mess of needy moans and writhing desire, each of Dean's touches like explosives buried under his skin.

"Oh god, closer come closer," he says into Dean's mouth. He shifts until he has his thighs squeezed around Dean's waist and his ankles locked behind him.

Dean sinks in, closer closer like Sam wants (like Dean needs) and touches him with reverence. He breaks away for just a moment to look, to take in his little brother's floppy hair messed across his forehead, his flushed cheeks, his wet lips. Sam smirks up at him and is exactly where he wants to be.

"Shit," Dean says, dumbstruck. He rocks his hips against Sam's ass until the tight friction drives them mad. Sam tosses his head back against the window, displaying his long neck and then there's nothing Dean can do to stop himself from dipping down and finding his brother's pulse with his mouth and teeth. He presses his tongue flat to Sam's neck and waits until he can feel the blood pumping under his skin, reassurance of life. He sucks that one spot until Sam is incoherent, teases it between his teeth. He wonders if he opens his mouth wide enough could he swallow all of Sam right up and he could be a part of him, one body one mind, never apart.

"You're so fucking weird," Sam laughs out. "Fucking hell just get back up here and get back to kissing me."

Dean does. "You're really goddamn pretty," Sam whispers to him between long kisses. "Like, gorgeous."

"I'm not a girl," Dean says and nips Sam's tongue hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. He shares the rich taste between them until it fade away. It's just an objection for the record; the flattery doesn't bother him as much as he wishes it would.

" _Fine then_." Sam continues anyways because he wants to despite not needing to prove his point. " _Hot, too attractive for my own good, ruggedly handsome. Jesus, Dean, you make me want to peel off you skin and wear it._ "

Dean pulls back enough to look at Sam in shock. " _And you think_ I'm _weird? Dude._ "

Sam shrugs and laughs. " _Whatever_." He yanks Dean's hair. " _Just kiss me again and again and again again again again Dean again_." He repeats the word until it becomes gibberish and wrong, until the sounds melt together, so Dean does. He kisses him until they're stupid with it.

: : :

It's about fifty miles to the nearest town with a motel. Dean drives too fast and is filled with a frantic, desperate energy. He had stopped them from getting each other off in the back of the Impala with "No not here not in the back seat. Sam let's just get to a motel and I can fuck you right. I'm going to fuck you so hard and sweet, baby brother."

Sam is sitting pushed right up next to him in the car as Dean drives. He has the tips of his fingers under Dean's shirt then down his waistband then in his bellybutton, and he's thinking about the things he could make Dean do to him.

"You kinky son of a bitch," Dean says with a nervous laugh because he's never been into restraints or blindfolds or cock rings or wax play, but if Sam is then he could probably learn to be.

Sam presses his little smile into Dean's shoulder. "Yeah, we'll work up to that stuff."

They pull into the motel and check in quickly. They don't bother to bring in the bags yet, Dean just fumbles with the keys and gets them in the room as quickly as possible. He pushes Sam down on the closer bed and follows, kissing him speechless. " _Sam my Sammy all mine forever_ ," he thinks and takes off their shirts, too impatient to go slow and tease.

They rock into each other, steady and mindless while Dean takes a moment to enjoy how Sam looks under him, too blissed and ready to be fucked into the mattress to do more than blink and smile at him.

And well shit, they're so goddamn pretty like this, wanting each other and savoring every touch like it's the only ones they'll get. Maybe it's his narcissism or maybe it's Sam's hero-worshipping, rose-tinted vision, but he is fucking hot. Then again, so is Sam, and neither of them have any trouble accepting the fact.

"You're really full of yourself," Sam says. "Also, put your hands in my hair and pull it and move me around however you want. Put me where you want me then kiss me again, and get around to the sex sometime before tomorrow."

"When did you get so bossy?" Dean asks rhetorically and laughs, but twists a hand through Sam's hair and jerks his head back so he can bite that spot on his brother's pulse again.

"You're so good, you're so so good at doing what I want," Sam moans and starts to work Dean's pants off.

: : :

Later, they lie on top of the sheets next to each other, sweaty and relatively content. Dean feels a little twitchy, like his fight or flight reflexes are kicking in and he wants to flee. Sam is too distracted with wanting to ask him something to notice it.

"Dean?" Sam finally asks. He's trying to hide the thoughts until he gets the words out in proper sentences, but he's imagining _home_ and _hot_ and _mountains_.

Dean wants to take his flight instinct and run away with Sam to the safety of the East Coast, but instead he replies, "What's up?"

"Let's go to California--" Dean doesn't mean to cut him off, doesn't intend the vehement sense of NO, and Sam stops for a moment and stares at him a little too long before continuing. "Hear me out. _Please_. I'm not taking off. I'm not going to disappear into the hills and never see you again. I just want to drive through, see a few places. Dean, I lived in California for longer than anywhere else I've ever lived in my _life_ and I miss it. We can't avoid that part of the country forever. I know you hate it there, it scares you, but please?"

Dean doesn't say anything, just scratches his fingernails against the grain of the sheets _one two three four one two three four_.

"We don't have to go to Palo Alto. Maybe just San Francisco, and then up North? We could see the redwoods."

Dean eventually nods. "Okay," because in the end it's all about what Sam wants and he's not leaving, Dean won't be left behind again. "Okay, we can go."

The blinding, ecstatic happiness he feels in response from Sam kind of makes it worth it, and it's catching. "You want to show big brother all your old haunts?" he asks with a laugh. He can't stay angry when Sam is like this.

Sam nods enthusiastically. "Yes! There's this coffee place I used to go to sometimes, an old book store, this pond in the park."

"Oh my _god_ ," Dean say incredulously. "You were _such_ a _college kid!_ "

Sam grins. "Yeah I know." He touches their toes together, thankful.

: : :

So, the next morning, after a long afternoon and night of fucking and kissing and learning what makes each other tick, Dean points the Impala to the West and towards California.

During his mid-morning nap, in between coffee and lunch, Sam dreams. It's night and he's standing on some shoreline, watching the waves break at his feet. The warm water tickles his bare toes, but a cold wind makes him shiver. There's mist over the stars and the moon is nowhere to be seen. It's so dark out. He wants to wade out into the water to see if it's any warmer than the air, power through the opposing force of the surf, wade out until his clothes are heavy and waterlogged and drag behind him. The ocean looks so black and inviting and quiet, so quiet, so deep and silent and peaceful. He wants to taste the salt water, dunk down and drink the brine, swirl away like discarded seaweed. The rushing in his ears would sound like silence.

Dean breathes out a shaken gasp and hits Sam on the knee to wake him up. "Dude that's some messed-up dream you're having. Been hitting the hard stuff already?"

Sam sits up and shakes off the dream-memory. "Let's just stop for coffee again soon. I don't want to sleep."

He can't stop thinking about the ocean for the rest of the day, even when Dean cranks Sam's favorite Jethro Tull tape or when he cracks lewd jokes or buys him a salad or pulls over onto the side of the highway and blows him. He can't stop thinking about the ocean and their curse and how he's scared of North Carolina but feels a sick pull to go back and examine those frothing waters where past example says they'll go drown themselves.

: : :

Dean tries to avoid routes and exits that add or multiply or subtract out to three because they make him nervous. He cuts his eyes away and holds his breath as they pass by those signs and resists the urge to scratch the itch out from under his skin. Sometimes three _hurts_ , like a brain tumor, stealing away his sanity. He wants to purge it from his mind, rip it away and destroy it like it's destroyed him.

He takes a deep breath and stops thinking for a minute so he can calm his heart rate back to normal. Sam keeps to his side of their mind and lets him work through it on his own. Thank the universe for Sam, calm, understanding Sam.

: : :

They pull into San Francisco in the late evening. Sam knows a cheap hotel, relatively clean and pretty close to his favorite restaurant.

Dean tries to lay down on the springy bed with Sam and get him on top of him all over him, but Sam just laughs and kisses him and gets up. "Come on. Let's find some food and booze and enjoy this beautiful city."

Sam leads the way and Dean follows out the front of the hotel into the lively neighborhood. Sam remembers these winding streets and cramped buildings more vividly than almost anything else from his school years, from taking study breaks with Jess and coming out to the city for rampant adventures.

Sam pulls him around by the sleeve. He's full of happy excitement to share his city with Dean, the lights and people and salty air, and Dean is content to indulge him.

They get a table at a place Sam remembers, outdoors on the street so they can watch people flowing by. It's flashy like everything else but, not presumptuous (their menu is entirely in English, rather than some places he's seen where you need an English-to-Whatever dictionary to order because the owner thinks it makes them more "authentic"), and Sam is adamant they have the best pizza in the state.

Dean lights a cigarette as they wait for their beers. The first drag is like bitter coffee in the morning, the second not quite as good. Sam gestures over for it, so Dean offers him one of his own.

"No, the food should be here pretty soon. I just want some of yours. It tastes better stolen."

Dean gives it to him but can't help adding in, "God this is so gay."

"It doesn't matter here. You could get under the table and blow me and nobody would bat an eyelash." Sam smirks around the filter of the cigarette and imagines Dean doing just that, wishes he was yanking his brother's hair and fucking his mouth until spit dripped down his chin and he was close to coming in his jeans.

"You fucking _dick_ ," Dean says. "You can't think shit like that unless we can follow through!"

"It's called foreplay, Dean, and I promise you can do whatever you want to me later on. But first, it looks like the waiter is about here with our beer."

The beer is good and the pizza is as awesome as Sam promised, crisp and brick-oven cooked like he's never cared about before, but Sam distracts him by sucking on his greasy fingers like they're Dean's tongue and considers rimming him tonight.

"Could you think any _more_ inappropriate dinner thoughts?" Dean asks, slightly aghast and getting hard against his volition. "That isn't a challenge, either." He waves his pizza crust at Sam as if it would prove his point, but Sam just takes it out of his hand and eats it, and isn't convinced. Instead he thinks about finger-fucking Dean with his cock down his throat until he comes in his mouth and Sam can feel him jerking against his tongue.

"Fucking hell, Sam. Let's finish eating and then we can go back to the room, whatever, but remember it was you that pushed us out the door half an hour ago."

Sam shrugs a little sheepishly. "Okay okay. And then after we'll come back out and find a bar, yeah?"

"Yeah that sounds good." Dean can't help grinning at him though, at his horny little brother and how they can't get enough of each other.

They smoke another cigarette on the way back, puff puff pass. Sam elbows him out of the way as they rush up the narrow stairs to their second-floor room (there hadn't been any left on the ground floor and the only other choices were on the third, which, _no_ ), but has to wait for Dean to follow with the key. Sam crowds behind him in the doorway with his fingers in his belt loops and rubs against his hip, then trips them into their room once Dean finally, finally (only a couple seconds, really) gets the door unlocked.

Dean yanks them together so he can kiss Sam, wet and needy because he's too aroused to think about technique. He gets them undressed quickly and down onto one of the beds. Their skin sticks together in the muggy heat, so Dean makes sure to touch as much of Sam as he can in this different atmosphere, learning what he feels like when he's silky with sweat.

He fucks him a little too rough, but Sam just whimpers and begs for it _harder please harder_ and bucks into it. He wants him with the neediness of a younger sibling, and Dean gives it to him with the dedication of the older.

: : :

It's two more days before Dean can drag Sam away from San Francisco. It's not that he didn't like it (he was surprised by how much fun he had seeing the sights and being introduced to this chapter of Sam's past he missed out on), just that he's got the itch to _leave_ again, to move, to go, and despite having fun, he's still scared that Stanford, less than an hour south, is going to tempt Sam away again.

So they roar away in their car and leave the Bay Area for another day, and head up up north to the rolling hills and endless orchards.

The nightmares are getting worse. Sam dreams about drifting away with the tide, chasing serenity in all the wrong places.

" _Dying won't stop this, won't make it better_ ," Dean thinks, trying to convince Sam's subconscious. Sam himself already believes him. He wants to beat the curse too, but Dean doesn't trust a mind that has had death visions before.

More often than not, Sam wakes up from these dreams in a clammy sweat and terrified. Drowning seems much more pleasant when he's asleep than when he's not; when Dean pinches him back into consciousness, the water is choking them instead of bringing them on a new adventure.

Terror feels different on each of them. For Dean, it's confining. He shrinks away and tries to hide from it. It's freezing cold and feels like three and it makes him still and indifferent. For Sam, like recently, he starts shaking and he can't think straight. He gags on it like seawater and it feels acidic in his stomach.

" _You're not going to do this, I won't let you die, if you die, I die and that's just how the world works_ ," Dean tells Sam and pulls his head down into his lap. He brushes his sweaty hair away from his forehead and rubs his fingers into his temples. " _You're not drowning, I'm not drowning, this thing is just playing games with us. Dreams won't off us. We'll wait it out and then when the dreams stop we'll forget about them, because they can't hurt us_." He keeps up a steady stream of reassurances until Sam can breathe properly again and close his eyes without seeing foaming water, and instead sees the passing surroundings like Dean does.

Sam watches the scenery raptly. The bouncing hills get in the way of the horizon and they want to climb one of them because it looks nice up there, a good place to knock back a few shots and watch the sunset. Then appear the hundreds upon hundreds of even rows of trees, acres of them, all lined up perfectly and when you look down in between you can't see their end. The two of them could walk into an orchard and not be found for months, far away from the ocean, and wait the night terrors out.

That night they stay in a nowhere hotel in a little truck stop town. Dean is too tired from the day of driving to do anything but watch a little TV and pass out, but Sam stays up for a while and tries to do some more research on ghost ship curses, but it's a hard subject to find anything on and his frustration makes Dean toss and turn.

He wakes up in the night from Sam's nightmare which is bleeding over into his own uneasy dreams. He's on the other bed shivering and breaking out in a cold sweat. The feeling of slipping under water makes Dean dreadfully still for a moment and the rushing in his ears is awful instead of gentle. But he snaps out of it and jumps between their beds to wake Sam up. " _Ssh ssh it's okay. I'm here and they can't do anything when I'm around, right?_ "

Sam nods. " _I'm okay_." Even though it feels like there's still water in his lungs stomach nose eyes, salty and making him sick. " _Could you just. Stay here, though?_ "

" _Yeah I could do that_." Dean slips into bed next to him under the comforter because Sam kicked away the sheet. "You know they never wash these things, right?"

"Yeah whatever. Go to sleep." Sam curls up on his side of the bed, facing Dean. The dreams are scary, but as long as Dean is in arm's reach, he'll always be bigger than them.

Dean wakes up in the morning when Sam tosses his arm across his throat. He grumbles and moves it away from him and then curses his brother's existence because now he's awake. He's always hated sharing beds with people because they get into his space and end up sleeping too close; Sam is no exception to this distaste. So he pokes Sam's mind until he squints open his eyes.

"What the fuck do you want, asshole?"

Dean grins. "Just the pleasure of your company since you so nicely woke me up with your flailing not five minutes ago."

Sam scowls at him. He's still groggy and cranky with sleep, so Dean pulls faces at him until Sam finds himself amused against his will. He refuses to crack a smile though, which just makes Dean increase his efforts.

It's the scrunched nose and sneak tickle attack that finally makes Sam dissolve in quiet peals of laughter that Dean can't help joining. "I win this round."

"But I'm awesomer than you, so I just win at life," Sam says and rolls on top of him to kiss him slow and lazily like mornings suggest. "Hey, I have an idea. Want to run away into the hills and dig a hole in the west-facing side of one and we can live there like hobbits?" he asks, only mostly joking.

Dean laughs and kisses him one two three four. "No."

Sam sighs, but he didn't exactly expect that plan to be met with much enthusiasm. "Fine. I suppose we'll just keep on driving aimlessly around the country killing bad things."

"Yeah that sounds more like it."

: : :

Dean loves looking at their maps (so many maps, boxes of maps, maps to anywhere in the country). He likes to spread them out on his bed and flip through the pages of the atlases to examine backroads and small towns, or trail his fingers over routes he's taken on their big US map.

His favorite is through the White Mountains in New England, with the curling highways going up and down through tight forests.

"Want to go to New Hampshire or something after this?" Dean asks Sam, who is sitting next to him and watching the history channel. He picks up the New Hampshire atlas to find little one-horse towns hidden in pockets of trees.

"I guess we can," Sam says with a shrug. He's not necessarily thrilled, but fair is fair, Dean did come to California for him.

"Awesome. Those downeasters are crazy folk and they always have ghosts to burn."

The narrator is talking about submarines in World War II and Sam isn't really paying attention while Dean plots their route, planning detours as necessary to avoid three-based Interstates.

Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye. He's always watching, always has been watching, even though these days he's wanting too, desire so overwhelming is burns them.

"You checking me out, stud?" Dean asks and grins. He cuts his gaze over to look at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam says, kind of distracted. He's staring at Dean's rock-solid thighs that he loves to grip his fingers into, then looks up except then his eyes get stuck on the slight pull in the front of Dean's pants that doesn't really go away in Sam's presence. His mouth is watering and he bites his lip and he _wants_. "I'm thinking about how you haven't fucked me since yesterday morning. You gonna do something about that?"

Dean sweeps the maps off the bed. "Yes." He straddles Sam's legs in a couple smooth movements, gets right up into his space where he belongs. He kisses him reverently, runs his tongue along Sam's uneven bottom teeth because they're too endearing for words. They smile into each other's mouths, little happy puffs of laughter.

: : :

Sam is getting better at shielding his thoughts from him, because they're not as pervasive as they were at first. The big, important concepts are there as strong as ever, but Sam has been filtering out the mindless details. It's kind of nice.

Dean still feels him in the back of his mind at every moment of every day, filling all the lonely corners with living self. Sam helps him forget the coldness that's grown up with him, makes his obsessions seem a little less important.

: : :

In the end (which is only a couple days later), it's over so suddenly it feels like a dream. They wake up one morning and the curse is gone. Dean opens his eyes without moving and Sam is getting dressed, and half his vision is missing. There's a haunting silence in that empty space in his mind that used to be just for the numbers and patterns, then for weeks was filled with Sam's endless chatter and inane thoughts about laundry or old books, and now it's empty again.

Oh god, he's gone.

"Sam!" he says and sits up. Sam looks over in surprise, looks at him for a couple moments like he's trying to read him but he can't, of course he can't, because the damn curse he thought he hated has abandoned them with _no warning_.

Sam drops his shirt and runs over quickly, not quickly enough because Dean can't hurry him along. He touches Dean's shoulder and pinches it, way too hard until Dean flinches away. "You can't feel that. Sam, you can't."

Sam draws a deep breath and stands up. "Oh fuck." He puts on his shirt and walks out of the room into the bright morning, slams the door behind him. Once Dean can't see him, Sam is gone. He can't feel his footsteps or breathe with him or listen in on his running commentary on stupid rednecks living in backwoods California.

He's stuck in the same position: same gaped mouth, still clenching his fingers in the sheets. He doesn't know where Sam is, he could be in the parking lot or hotwiring a car to Oregon or on his way to the bottom of the sea for all he can sense him.

Dean chokes up bile at that but he can't vomit, not right now, he has to find Sam first and see if he's okay. If he's okay. If he's okay.

He runs out the door in his boxers and t-shirt and is about to yell for him except he's okay. Sam is just sitting on the hood of the Impala, smoking a cigarette and tapping his fingers against his leg (one of the patterns Dean taught him a few days ago). His little brother looks up at him with his mouth tight and grim, but Dean can tell how freaked he is.

The yell chokes in Dean's throat, he coughs on it and it hurts. "Sam."

Sam looks at him and shrugs, drags deeply from the cigarette like it's better than air. He's not so much tapping harmless patterns on his leg as clawing the muscle to a rhythm. His fingers are white from the force he's using and it looks uncomfortable. "I don't know. Dean, I don't know, I don't know. What the fuck. Why now? Why us, why this, why the dreams, why is it over, what's going on?" 

Dean walks forward and sits next to him on the hood. "I don't know." He closes his eyes and it's like Sam isn't there, so he opens them and looks at him until Sam looks back. He touches Sam's stomach, still so warm and alive and Sam. Sam isn't any different; he's still nerdy Sam, still crazy-about-Dean Sam, but he's missing now.

Dean's mind is frantically looking for Sam. It's so empty, needs something to fill it where Sam rushed in and expanded it, but all he can find are numbers, more and more numbers, threes worse than poison, zeros as sweet as little brother. Sam is gone as suddenly as he had been there; things are back to normal, except his normal got reinvented and now it's shattered, so what's a man supposed to do with shattered normal?

"Oh god, Dean, what do we do?" Sam asks into his hands. He's so scared and it kills Dean to see.

" _I don't know!_ " he snaps and punches the hood of the Impala because her steel is stronger than they are and she can take it. He has so many goddamn questions and of course, there's nobody to answer them, there's just the residue of a curse.

Dean breathes in _one two three four_ , hold _two two three four_ , out _three two three four_ , hold _four two three four_ and squares his thoughts. "No, I know what we do. We go to Bobby's and gather ourselves. If North Carolina isn't calling us anymore then we're safe from curse suicide, or whatever it was. You're still mine, I'm still yours; that hasn't changed, won't ever change, is still the most important part. The rest, we'll figure out."

But it's going to be so lonely now.

THE END


End file.
